


A City Visible But Unseen

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 100,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine a world where everyone in the Potterverse grew up as Muggles ... only they didn't, because without a wizarding world there's no such thing as Muggles anyway. Imagine they all attend a run-down comp where our favourite faces teach, and where numerous other familiar faces crop up in various unlikely guises. Add in Vending-Machine-Repairman!Sirius, and you have this fic.</p><p>Written in November 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At The Dawning Of The Day

**Author's Note:**

> There are way more pairings than Draco/Hermione in this fic, but I can't remember them. The title is taken from Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses. This was my very first fic. That ... explains a lot.

_The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. - Oscar Wilde_

At five to nine on one cold January morning the students of Oakfield Comprehensive School began to converge on the school gates. Predictably there was a huge scuffle, much pushing and shoving, and as a background hum the screeching of damp bicycle brakes as their riders desperately attempted to avoid running someone over. Being pulled for dangerous bicycling is not the best way to start your day, especially a school day, which is only ever going to get worse.

 

The students of Class 6A detached themselves and wandered in a most relaxed manner to their form room as the bell began to ring. Their starchy Scottish form teacher, Miss McGonagall, stood in the doorway, impatiently beckoning them on.

'Hurry up there, Potter, Weasley - and Potter, how many times have I told you, trainers are _not_ part of the school uniform! Don't come in wearing them tomorrow.'

Potter, a scrawny young man with close cut gelled hair that contained several bleached highlights, wearing battered specs, a baggy uniform and scruffy trainers, muttered, under his breath, 'Then I won't _come_ in!'

'I heard that, young Potter,' Miss McGonagall said, scowling fiercely at him and his best pal Ron Weasley, who was wearing his tie around his head and had his jumper slung about his waist. Only one of his shirt buttons was done up, revealing a Grateful Dead t-shirt underneath. His too-short trousers revealed two different socks, one red and one purple. Trinny and Susanna would have had a field day.

'Hurry up there, Black!' Miss McGonagall called abruptly. Much to her chagrin, she spent most of her teaching career marshalling people into class, and far less doing any actual teaching, which suited her students, at least, just fine.

A tall, lean blonde boy was sauntering down the corridor, flanked by his two shaven-headed, thug like mates, Greg and Vinnie - the terror of the school. The attention of sundry females was firmly fixed on Black, as nature and he himself intended it to be. One of his pale blonde eyebrows was shot though with a steel bar in the shape of a dragon, and as he stuck his tongue out at the girls he revealed a partner stud piercing that. Like Ron, he wore only his shirt, rolled up to the elbow and gaping at the neck to reveal nothing but pale, bare skin underneath. His jumper was hooked over one shoulder and his trousers - non-regulation stonewashed jeans - were slung low on his hips, bagging over his Timberland boots, and encircled by a thick leather belt. Sadly, the Village People analogy would have entirely passed him by.

Miss McGonagall sighed in despair. 'There's no point even saying anything to you, Black,' she said. 'Take a detention for flouting uniform regulations and get into class.'

 

'Whatever.' Black shrugged, showing the utmost indifference to the punishment he received almost every day. In his opinion, it was a small price to pay for wearing whatever the hell he wanted.

 

As Black strolled through the door, an out-of-breath girl dashed up, curly hair flying, her arms hugging about half-a-dozen books.

 

'I'm so sorry, Miss!' she gasped. Black turned around to watch the spectacle with a mildly amused expression. 'Mum's car wouldn't start this morning and I had to walk, then my locker got stuck again - '

 

'It's quite alright, Miss Granger,' Miss McGonagall said fondly. 'Just go take your seat.'

 

The girl edged into the room past Black, who made no attempt to move out of her way. She made the utmost effort not to touch any part of him, being about the only female in the school (aside from McGonagall) who treated him as though he had contracted leprosy rather than as a walking Viagra factory, and eventually got inside.

 

'Move, Black!' Miss McGonagall barked.

 

She took her seat at the battered teacher's desk that stood at the head of the small, grubby, grey-walled classroom, whose grimy windows overlooked a windswept, desolate concrete yard. It was very inspiring sight, in the 'oh looky a little flower outside my prison cell window' genre. Unfortunately for any budding poets, most teachers at Oakfield Comprehensive were too busy trying to instil basic grammar skills into the lower primates who filled its ranks to pay any attention to potential genius, and one or two flowers blushed unseen and wasted their sweetness on the Tuesday-curry-scented air.

 

'Black, why aren't you sitting down?' Miss McGonagall burst out, having just noticed Black lounging against the wall, one foot propped against it, hands in pockets, staring out of the window with what appeared to be avid interest. He turned slowly at her voice, looked at her for a few seconds, then said in a clearly enunciated voice, 'I don't know.'

 

'Well, take a seat!' Miss McGonagall was nearly apoplectic with rage.

' _Where_?' asked Black in disdain. Miss McGonagall noticed that all the back seats were gone. In a barely controlled voice, she pointed at the one free chair - next to Hermione, at the front of the class - and said, 'Here.'

Black gave her a disbelieving look, but, noticing the whiteness of her lips, and not wanting, after all to be expelled, he sighed and meandered between the maze of desks to the front. As he made his way forward, Miss McGonagall noticed Hermione flushing in embarrassment and slowly clearing a space, attempting, with difficulty, to stack all her books in one pile. Black slammed his one book - a tattered, dog-eared one it was too - on the desk and slammed himself down after it. He then took to chewing the end of his biro, all the while affecting the same complete interest in the view outside of the window. Hermione edged herself and her books away from him, then leaned down so close to her novel that her forehead was almost touching its pages.

 

'Roll call!' said Miss McGonagall, eyeing her class beadily through her small square glasses. She smoothed out her tartan kilt skirt, brushed a few non-existent specks from her white Arran jumper, self-consciously hitched up her wrinkled black tights and commenced.

'Well, Black, you're clearly in. Wonderful. Millicent Bulstode?'

 

'Millie's not in, Miss,' volunteered her best friend, Pansy, who was chewing gum with loud smacking sounds. She was wearing a skirt so short it could have doubled as a belt and a too-tight shirt, its buttonholes straining at the seams. 'She's - uh - sick. Ya know, de painters are in.'

 

'Remove that from your mouth, Miss Parkinson,' said Miss McGonagall automatically, too long in the tooth at this stage to actually expect Pansy to obey her. 'Alright.' She marked Millicent Absent. 'Remind Miss Bulstode to bring a note tomorrow. Terry Boot?'

 

'That's me!' said a freckled boy with long, floppy chestnut hair in altogether too cheery a voice for that time of a cold, dull Monday morning. He turned to wink lasciviously and grin with sparkling white teeth at the girls behind him, who fluttered eyelashes and fringes back.

 

Miss McGonagall rolled her eyes. 'Lavender Brown?'

 

'Here, Miss,' said a giggly brunette with growing out highlights. Her skirt, though

not as indecent as Pansy's, was still an inconsiderable length, as were the skirts of the two other girls squeezed at a table for two. All wore their jumpers in deference to the bitterly cold weather, but their legs were completely exposed, their knee socks rolled down to the last degree. The other two girls, who were identical twins, had long shiny hair, which they were constantly flicking over the desk of the boys behind them. They were all heavily caked with eyeliner, sparkly eyeshadow and sticky lipgloss, presenting the world with the overall image of an exploded working diagram of a cosmetics factory.

 

Miss McGonagall rolled her eyes. 'Vincent Crabbe.' Vinnie made a grunting noise, which she took for a declaration of his presence in the room.

 

'Seamus Finnigan?'

 

A gangly boy in the back row said 'Yah' in a languid Irish bogger accent. His jumper was pinned with dozens of Irish flag badges of the type sold to gullible tourists. His tie was bound directly around his neck, bypassing his collar entirely, which had been coloured green with a highlighter and inked with the letters IRA at intervals.

 

'Gregory Goyle?' Another incomprehensible grunt.

 

'Hermione Granger?'

 

The curly haired girl, seated alone in the front desk, looked up vaguely from the open books spread around her. She appeared to have been interrupted in train of reading 'Great Expectations.'

'Oh, present,' she said, so Miss McGonagall could just hear her, and bent her head back over her book.

'Neville Longbottom?'

 

A podgy boy with a food-stained jumper and white socks spoke in a trembling voice. 'I'm here.'

 

'Padma and Parvati Patil?'

 

'Here!' the twins chorused, tossing their hair in unison. Pam and Par, as they liked to be known, then turned to Seamus, who was behind them, and winked. Pam blew a huge pink bubble. Seamus made a horrified face and tipped his chair back. He then clasped his hands behind his head and grinned at Dean, two desks down, who ignored him.

 

'Pansy, you're here,' Miss McGonagall muttered. 'Harry Potter.'

 

She looked down at him when he didn't reply. Harry had his eyes closed and was leaning back in his chair, nodding his head slightly. Miss McGonagall stormed down between the row of desks, incensed. Her anger only increased when she detected the tinny sound of Lost Prophets wafting from the tiny earpieces wedged in Harry's ears. Spotting the teacher descending like a bat out of hell, Ron opened his eyes properly for the first time that morning, took stock, and rammed his elbow into Harry's side. Harry's eyes jerked open just as Miss McGonagall snapped the headphones out of his ears.

 

'Listening to music in class!' she cried, breathing hard. 'Take a detention, Mister Potter, and if I see that blasted contraption within five yards of your person again I will personally take it and _clobber you to death with it_!'

 

'Not bad, Miss,' Black drawled approvingly. Hermione gave him a admonitory -

albeit extremely rapid - look from under her bushy fringe. Dean held up a scrap of paper on which he had artistically delineated a rather curly eight.

'Humph!' Miss McGonagall snorted through her beaky nose. 'Back to the roll call, then, if you please! Dean Thomas!'

Dean held up another piece of paper on which he had sketched 'Here' in bubble letters. Seamus gave him a friendly nod. Dean pointedly shifted in his seat so that he was facing away from Seamus, who folded his arms in a huff.

 

'Blaise Zabini?'

 

A girl with very long dyed black hair (for which there is no equivalent in nature), black eyeliner, black lipstick, black (not to break a winning formula) fingernails and a fake-pale complexion indolently raised one hand, tugging down her skirt with the other. Terry gave her a come hither look and she gave him the finger. He shrugged and went on attempting to find his reflection in the zip of his pencilcase.

 

'Well that concludes that, at last,' Miss McGonagall said. 'Now, if you could all open your copies of - uh - the Scottish play - today we're going to be studying the theme of Kingship in its different forms.'

 

'Notice the way she can't say Macbeth?' Black sniggered, ostensibly to Hermione, because there was no one else in the vicinity.

 

'Some people think it's bad luck,' Hermione replied pointedly.

 

'I thought that was only actors?'

 

'Bad luck can happen to anyone.'

 

'Only if you believe in it.' Black stretched his arms lazily behind his head.

'Aren't you fortunate, to be able to think like that,' Hermione said waspishly.

 

'Jeez, no need to be so defensive,' Black said in surprise, opening his eyes wide. Hermione coughed angrily and started maniacally rearranging her books; anything not to have to look in a direction that contained Black.

'Black!' Miss McGonagall's voice lit on Black with altogether too much malicious pleasure. 'Try and see if you can name me all the kings in the play and the type of kingship they represent.' It was the kind of question she usually reserved for Hermione, or Neville if she was feeling particularly patient.

 

'Duncan represents the wise and beloved king who's a bit too gullible for the job. Macbeth typifies the evil tyrant as he gains kingship through the forces of darkness. Edward is a sainted king and Malcolm at the end shows signs of being both a good and wise ruler, unlike his father,' Draco shot off, barely pausing for breath.

 

Miss McGonagall merely raised her eyebrows. 'If only you used that intellect more often, Black, you'd make a class A student,' she said, so that only he and Hermione could hear.

'Thanks, but no thanks,' Black said dismissively. 'I've got better things to do with my time.'

 

Miss McGonagall only shook her head sadly and moved on to try and coax a relevant answer out of Lavender. She had seen too much wasted potential in Oakfield to get het up over what was, after all, just another bright loser. Hermione, however, had no such experience, and when Miss McGonagall's back was turned, rounded on Black.

 

'Why don't you try a bit harder?' she accused him in a hiss. 'What more important things have you got to do than earn yourself a better future?'

 

Black simply regarded her impassively with his blank silver orbs. 'What future did you think I currently had, that a couple of years in Oxford, like you want, would improve on it?'

 

Hermione shrugged, her lip curling. 'Unemployed. Checkout chick - only you'd be a guy. Drug pusher. Hell, if you were a girl I'd say pregnancy and living off social welfare. That's what people do around here.'

 

'I thought we were talking about my future here, not my post-secondary school employment.'

 

'Same thing!'

 

'Not at all,' Black said with infuriating calmness. 'I'm an only child, and the 'rents have stacks of money. I'd never have to get a job if I didn't want one.'

 

'If your parents are so loaded, what are you doing here?' Hermione said disbelievingly. 'Why aren't you at Winchester or something if you can afford it?'

'Ah, there you have it,' Black said, grinning. 'I never said that the money was technically legal or anything.'

 

Hermione stared at him with round eyes, then, compressing her lips into a thin line, a la McGonagall, proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the class.

 

She stayed behind after class to check her latest essay with Miss McGonagall, so

that everyone had gone by the time she had left to go to Chemistry.

Her tardiness was not noticed, as the class was in its usual state of disarray. Most of the sixth form girls had taken Chemistry, not out of any love for the subject, but rather lust of the teacher's arse. Mr Snape, by Hermione's calculations, had to be at least thirty-something, but he didn't act it, with his Adrian Brody-esque floppy black locks and tight leather trousers. She could not, for the life of her, see what the girls liked about him, but she was ineffably polite to him always. He was, after all, a teacher.

She made her way to her usual seat at the front, not even bothering to apologise

for her lateness, as Snape was draped over Lavender and Blaise's desk, 'correcting homework'. Even the habitually taciturn Blaise was moved to a rare half smile in his presence, although she still didn't condescend to say a word. Hermione shook her head in astonishment, as always, and went to put her books on her desk -

Only to find that their space was already occupied. Hermione stared at the foreign books for several seconds, trying to guess their origin, before turning her eyes to her stool, which was being insouciantly lounged upon by Black, radiating an air of sullen cool.

 

'Black, why are you here and what are you doing in my seat?' Hermione said, with a valiant stab at politeness.

 

'I need a new lab partner,' he muttered, flicking repetitively at the battered wood of the desktop. 'Greg transferred to Maths because he fancies Miss Vector, so I was left alone.'

 

'Excuse me if I'm not weeping buckets at your predicament,' Hermione said sarcastically. 'But I've managed to get along just fine on my own for the past two years, and you can bloody well do the same!'

 

'Do sit down, Hermione, so that we can start,' Snape murmured, finally deigning to stop flirting with Lavender and the Patil twins in time to start the class. 'I'm sure you'll find Black doesn't bite. Much.'

 

Scowling furiously, Hermione plonked herself down on the stool next to the blonde-haired first-class pillock, biting the side of her cheek to stop herself punching him. She made a mental effort to reign in her passionate anger. He's not worth it, she reminded herself. In fact, she hadn't even noticed that he was even in the class until now, when he just had to go and annihilate her personal space.

 

At Snape's command, she began setting out the equipment for an EDTA test on hard water. To her dual gratification, Black managed to stay out of her way, and more importantly for her state of mind, stay silent.

 

They worked in silence for the next hour, Hermione even refraining from comment when Black blatantly copied her write-up of the experiment.

 

As per usual, one of the tables had 'accidentally' spilled a container of Erichchrome Black T all over their table, and Mr Snape was most solicitous in offering his aid. Hermione stared into space, unable to even summon up the will to make a start on her homework while Black was beside her, flicking at the table again.

 

'Stop!' she growled at last.

 

'Stop what?' Black seemed genuinely affronted, as if he didn't realise what he had been doing. Hermione didn't reply, only snatched up her books as the bell signalled welcome release.

~

Draco looked up from the boring-as-hell literary passage he had been given to transcribe as detention work and was instead doodling on. To his left, Harry Potter was scribbling away furiously, but from what Draco could see it wasn't an essay on cultural context in Silas Marner - rather, something more along the lines of Slipknot lyrics. Draco couldn't see why he was bothering to squander the paper - the teachers never actually read what was written in detention. He'd even tested it once, by transliterating a well-thought out, steamy piece of erotica in which Mr Snape, Miss McGonagall, Mrs Sprout the biology teacher and a good deal of whipped cream had featured prominently. He had even felt slightly insulted that he'd got no reaction from them - Greg, whose only reading material consisted of tomes from the Black Lace line, had assured him it was worthy of publication. Anyway, the point was that if Potter was trying to shock the teachers with a few obscene lyrics, he was wasting his time.

 

Draco stared out the window, trying to find shapes in the clouds, a pastime that occupied him during most of his classes. The sprinkling of his classmates around the windswept concrete yard caught his attention. There was Weasley, with a few of his drongo mates, staggering dizzily around in the shelter of the wheely bins, clearly smoking something illegal that made them go 'wow' a lot.

 

Terry Boot, Seamus and Dean were playing football. Correction - Terry was flexing his muscles at the gaggle of girls, who were giggling gamely despite their blue knees, Seamus had removed his shirt in an effort to show something off (quite what, Draco couldn't ascertain), and Dean, with a look of desperate determination, was kicking the ball at a nearby wall.

 

Hermione was sitting on a bench, reading a book. Draco nearly scowled at her, then reminded himself that this was a futile act, as there was no one there to see. Potter didn't count - he didn't pay any attention to anyone except Weasley and possibly those voices inside his head.

 

As he watched, Greg and Vinnie began throwing things at Hermione - coins and fag butts, by the look of it. Hermione didn't respond beyond picking the things out of her hair. Draco frowned. He'd have to have a word with them about that. If anyone was going to be tormenting the Granger swot, _he_ should be the one that was doing it.

 

At long last, McGonagall returned and let them out for lunch. Potter immediately inserted his headphones into his ears and headed off down the corridor with a set look on his face. Draco ambled after, wondering if the delights of chicken in the canteen for the third week in a row were enough to get over the bother of eating at all. He idly crumpled up the sketch of Harry he'd drawn and dropped it in the bin. Deciding to opt for the easy way out, he stopped by the vending machine and inserted some silver.

 

As a Mars Bar was slotted through the hatch, a disapproving voice said, 'You'll ruin your teeth. And chocolate for lunch? That's very unhealthy.'

 

'Why Granger, I didn't know you cared,' Draco replied, ripping off the foil with his teeth without turning around.

 

'Don't flatter yourself,' she sniffed. 'Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see you die slowly of vitamin deprivation.'

 

'I thought you were outside,' he said, turning around to look at her. Her cheeks were stained red from the cold.

 

She gave him an odd look. 'I was, but your precious mates decided to start throwing things at me again.'

 

'Do they stop when you move away?' Draco asked curiously.

 

'I'm not worth the bother of following, Black.' She laughed hollowly.

 

'Besides, I brush my teeth twice a day,' he added thoughtfully.

 

'What?' Hermione looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Or rather, considering her opinion of him, as if he were finally deigning to demonstrate to the world what she had long considered to be an inalienable fact.

 

'See? Heffy sink song.'

 

'Yeah, but having a tongue piercing knocks the enamel off your teeth.'

 

'Why, Granger, you're no fun,' Draco complained. 'Can't I do something a little bit wrong?'

 

'Far be it from me to stop you,' said Hermione, with a closed expression.

 

'What class do we have now, out of interest? So I'll see if I'll bother turning up.'

 

'Did you say that just to infuriate me?'

 

'Maybe. Come on, Granger, have you ever known me to miss a class?'

 

'How should I know? What do I look like, your Filofax? You're always on detention, I know that much.'

 

'Not for missing class, though.'

 

'PE. We have PE.'

 

'Thank you. That was all I wanted.'

~

Half an hour later, 6A were assembled in the freezing basketball court that doubled as a football pitch and unihoc court and tennis court and lacrosse pitch, as well as, occasionally, disguising itself as a hash den. (It lead a fully and varied life and in the line-up of sports arenas, was the token schizophrenic.) Oakfield Comprehensive's obligatory gym class outfit of navy tracksuit pants, a white polo shirt with the school crest and a navy jumper was of course hardly evident - Hermione was the only one who was shivering in it in its entirety.

 

Harry was huddled against the sagging, torn goals, dressed in a huge black hoodie which displayed a pictorial rendition of Metallica on the back, dusty black cords and hiking boots. Standing, but swaying slightly, at his side, Ron appeared to take no note of the cold, from the fact that all he was wearing was tracksuit pants and the school polo shirt. However, the shirt was tie-dyed in rainbow colours and 'Sex Kills Die Happy' had been scrawled across the front in permanent marker. He still retained his school tie, knotted around his head.

 

The other girls in the class had chosen the option of wearing gym skirts which were larger than their usual school ones only in the volume of material they contained as opposed to actual length. They all sported labelled designer zipped hoodies - each a various shade of pink. Blaise remained the exception, for her top half was swathed in a black lace poncho. She was flicking at her nails while the others chattered like a flock of starlings in DKNY.

 

Terry barely covered his decency in black football shorts that clearly showed

where the name had come from and a tight white Calvin-Klein-modelesque t-shirt. He was jogging on the spot, gamely trying to keep the circulation going in his legs, all the while shooting Pearl Drop smiles at the female component. Dean was more sensibly, if still rule-breakingly, attired in a West Ham jersey and black Adidas tracksuit pants. He was determinedly not looking at Seamus - in a Sinfest t-shirt and baggy jeans - who was bouncing a ball off his head in a vain attempt to get attention.

 

Greg and Vinnie looked as if they were bouncers from a grotty nightclub who had wandered in by mistake - all black leather and inexplicable wrap-around shades. (The last reported sighting of the sun in the area had been June 14, 1978.) Beside them, Black lounged with panther-like grace, carrying off a faded All-Blacks jersey and white tracksuit pants that on anyone else would have looked ludicrously camp. Neville was excused from PE due to raging asthma.

 

Hermione wrapped herself in the arms of her voluminous jumper, trying to squash herself into as small a space as possible in order to enclose maximum heat.

 

Black flicked a coin at her. Her reflexes, tuned from years of putting up with similar every day, snatched it out of the air before it had even begun its downward cycle. She sent him a venomous glare.

 

'Buy a clue, Granger,' he called over lazily. 'No one wears the proper uniform to this class anymore.'

 

'Bugger off,' she retorted, doubly annoyed that she couldn't think of a wittier put-down. But it was always the case - Black irritated her so much he managed to shut down a lot of her thinking cells, allowing something far more primal - and primitive - to surface, hence the uncharacteristic cursing.

 

'Oh, Hermione, you're so lucky,' Parvati sighed. 'I wish Black paid as much attention to me as he does to you.'

 

'But he's a twit!' Hermione said in amazement, completely forgetting to add, 'Please, you can have him! Just take him away before I poke his eye out with a biro lid and get done for murder although with strong provocation.'

 

'Oh, it must be love!' Lavender said rapturously, and she and the twins went off into a storm of giggles. Hermione snorted incredulously, and was rewarded with a killer wink from Blaise. Hermione dared to venture a small grin in her direction.

 

'All righ' class, line up!' came the booming tones of the PE teacher, Mr Hagrid. He was dressed in size XXXXXXL trousers and polo shirt, on which sweat stains were already forming, despite the icy coldness of the air.

 

Notwithstanding his intimidating size and foghorn voice, Hagrid could exercise as little control over the class as any other teacher. Within minutes, Harry and Ron were seated in the lee of the goals, with a headphone each. Dean was ramming Seamus' head repeatedly into the wire boundary, while Seamus shrieked, 'I wasn't really looking at your arse, I swear!' Terry was showing the girls warm up stretches, amidst the inevitable giggling, and Greg and Vinnie had wandered over to watch and try and spot any knicker-flashing. At last, only Hermione and Black were left, the former clutching a tennis racket, the latter unmoved from his original position, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

 

'Well - ' Hagrid gestured helplessly. 'Yous just - get set up there, and I'll be back in a mo....'

 

As the teacher's table-like back retreated in the direction of the equipment shed, Black deigned to sidle within Hermione's earshot.

 

'Off to take a coupla nips of the finest Irish breweries can offer, I'd wager,' he laughed.

 

Hermione didn't reply, only frowned, and started to hit a tennis ball against the wall with her racket.

 

After watching her for a few moments with the detached interest of a scientist observing a very odd specimen under his lens, he denied Hermione her unspoken wish and began to talk.

 

'Why are you bothering to do that?' he asked. 'It's not like you have anyone to play with, or you actually enjoy tennis.'

 

'It's a physical education class, and I'm physically exercising,' she panted, red-faced from her exertions. 'Besides, who says I don't like tennis?'

 

'You don't,' said Black with infuriating certainty. 'You don't like things you aren't good at, and you are most surely appalling at tennis, even against a wall.'

 

'Two words: Go. And away,' she snarled.

 

'The truth hurts, huh Granger?' he laughed, not moved in the slightest.

 

'You do know how much I hate you, I hope?' she said, whacking the ball so hard it imploded against the wall with the force of a nuclear missile and sailed away into the neighbouring housing estate. 'Oh, shit.'

'Don't worry,' said Black in amusement. 'I doubt they can afford a new one, but since no one ever plays for real anyway it won't be missed.'

 

'This place is - so - _crap_!' Hermione exclaimed. She was astounded at her sudden eloquence. All those years of reading, all the critical analysis, all the memorising of the wittiest literary put-downs and _this_ was what she came up with? Not so hot at thinking on her feet, much?

 

'You know, it always sounds so wrong when you utter obscenities,' Black mused.

'Bite me,' Hermione said, scowling. 'I'll say whatever the hell I want. Hang on - you just said a four-syllable word? How? Why? Where are the aerial pigs?'

 

'I can confound people with four syllable words if you can shock them with four-letter ones,' he shrugged.

 

'Puh-lease.' Hermione rolled her eyes. 'You cannot make me think swearing shocks you. Greg doesn't think something is worth saying if it doesn't contain at least one reference to a sexual act, and Vinnie can turn the air blue just saying 'socks'.'

 

'Exactly,' Black agreed, smiling charmingly. 'That's how they are. You, however, only do it for the effect, while they couldn't stop if they tried.'

 

'Oh, just - fall off a cliff, why don't you, and do the world a favour!'

 

'The world,' he said laughingly, leaning closer till they were almost touching noses, 'or just you?'

 

Hermione spluttered in indignation, unable to form anything coherent, while Black drifted away, chuckling.

 

'Oh, girl, you are so lucky!' Parvati's voice broke through her red haze.

'Oh god, the squawkers descend,' Hermione groaned, shutting her eyes. She could hear Blaise trying to stifle a husky laugh.

 

'Did you see that? They were almost kissing!'

 

'No we weren't!' Hermione wailed. 'I was trying to see the quickest way of pulling his brain out of his nostrils and tying it under his chin! Oh, I hate him so much.'

 

The gaggle watched her as she stormed away. Blaise was biting a finger in an effort not to laugh.

 

'Oh, they so fancy each other,' Lavender said knowingly.

 

'Unresolved sexual tension, for sure.'

 

'Uh-huh.'

 

'She doesn't deserve him, though - not with that attitude.'

 

'Maybe we should give her a makeover.'

~

 

Draco rejoined his friends, who had lost interest in Terry's workout once the girls had stopped waggling their asses about. He stepped over Seamus, who was curled in a heap, whimpering. He made to walk on, then paused, bent over Seamus and patted him on the shoulder.

 

'Sorry mate, but I really don't think he fancies you.'

 

Greg and Vinnie, who had heard the exchange between the infuriated Hermione and the pink-clad nymphets, eyed him shrewdly.

 

'Look, D- Black,' Greg began, 'I know you're touchy about this, but I think you should leave the Granger bint alone. From what I can see, she'd rather go out with a blind one-legged camel than you.'

 

'What he means to say,' Vinnie supplied, 'Is the girl ain't putting out. She don't fancy you, man! So you should find yourself someone easier. That Parkinson chick, maybe.'

 

'That's where you're wrong, oh despicable cronies mine,' Draco said, smiling angelically. 'I don't fancy her, so I could care less that she hates my guts.'

 

'No way, it's bleeding obv - owww!' Greg ended in a howl as Vinnie stepped on his foot and all fifteen stones of V. M. Crabbe descended on his small toe.

 

'What was that, Greg?' said Draco dangerously.

 

'Absolutely nothing,' said Vinnie innocently. 'Its probably his ingrown toenail bleeding, what?'

 

'If it wasn't before, it bloody well is now,' Greg groused, but wisely refrained from following his former train of thought aloud.

 

As they wandered back to the main building, Harry shoved up the over-long sleeve of his jumper to look at his watch.

 

'Its twenty-five past three,' he said, prodding Ron, who had sunk into half-conscious stupefaction. 'For crying out loud, did you get stoned again at lunch?' He looked despairingly at his friend, whose head was lolling slightly, the pupils of his half-lidded eyes wildly dilated. 'You used to be such a laugh,' he muttered sadly, heaving Ron up by the arm and hooking it around his shoulders to walk him inside, Lost Prophets still blaring tinnily from the dangling headphones.

 

As the bell rang, signalling the end of school, Seamus realised he was all alone. Groaning wearily, he staggered to his feet and started to jog towards the school, clutching his aching head.

~

In the staffroom, tired and dispirited teachers sagged around the vomit-green walls, occasionally perching on battered plastic chairs to start marking work, or orbiting towards the ancient coffee machine in search of sustenance.

 

Currently, Sev was banging the side of the machine in an effort to get it to yield more dirt-coloured sludge. Giving up, he announced to the world in general, 'The machine's broken again.' He was greeted by a weary chorus of groans from the assembled staff.

 

'Has anyone seen Dumbledore since before Christmas?' Minnie McGonagall

demanded.

 

'Nope,' said Selina Vector, a pretty student teacher much beloved by the libidinous male section of Oakfield Comprehensive, from where she hoped soon to escape and never return.

 

'I think he went on a drinking binge with Hagrid over New Year's. Hagrid woke up in a dustbin in the park, so god knows where the principal is by now,' the biology teacher volunteered. Ivy Sprout was a motherly, plump woman whose dedication and enthusiasm for her job had been long since eroded by students who couldn't care less, either about her, or more importantly, about the reproductive system of an oak tree.

 

'Good Lord,' Marie Sinistra, a heavy-lidded, black-haired physics teacher, groaned. 'Bugger all for getting someone to fix the machine, then.'

 

'Surely we can still have someone in,' said Remus Lupin, the French teacher, mildly. Despite having done a stint teaching in Oakfield during his training, he had still returned when offered a full-time job, and as yet did not seem to have imbibed the true nature of the place.

 

'That's where you're mistaken,' said Joe Binns, the history teacher, in a dry tone of voice. 'Dumbledore has the account book for the school, and he takes it with him everywhere. We haven't access to any other ready money for the school, unless you're prepared to pay for it out of your own wages?'

 

'Um.' Remus feigned avid interest in a horrendously written third form essay about drugs in school which, if it bore a resemblance to the French language, was entirely coincidental and apparently unintentional.

 

'I'm sure things will be all right,' said Sybil, the philosophy teacher, leafing rapidly through a tabloid paper. 'Look, Dumbledore's a Leo, and it said in his horoscope that the Moon is in the third house, meaning an easing of financial pressures.' She looked up with a triumphant smile that was met by glares from the teachers who had bothered to listen to her.

 

'Of course he has no financial pressures,' Sev muttered, sinking into a chair and raking a hand through his gel-laden hair. 'He drank them all away with the finances.'

'Surely not,' Remus retorted, without malice. 'He's probably just sick or something. And as a matter of fact, my friend Sirius is a vending machine repairman. I'll get him to fix the thing as a favour.'

 

'Sirius, the vending machine repairman?' Sev snickered, with an evil grin. 'Does he have a daughter that he calls Easter and who was born on a Tuesday night?'

 

'No,' said Remus thoughtfully. 'I think he's gay.'

 

Sev nearly spat out the mouthful of optimistically-named coffee that he had been thinking about swallowing. 'Why, thanks for sharing that with us, Remus.'

 

'No worries,' Remus said, hiding a smile behind his empty coffee cup. 'I could set you up, if you like.'

 

'I'm not gay!'

 

'Oh,' said Remus, with wide eyes. 'My mistake.'

 

Marie Sinistra snickered, and waved a hand in front of Sev's furious face. 'Cool it, honey. I can feel your chakras disintegrating as we speak.' Behind her, Sybil made a pained face.

 

'Seeing as we're all here - well, almost all,' Ivy Sprout began with a sigh, 'I suppose it's time we talked about the sixth form trip.'

 

'What's this then?' Remus asked, with genuine interest.

 

'It's another name for involuntary suicide,' Sev growled through gritted teeth.

 

'Each year, the sixth form is taken out for - depending to what level their untrustworthiness has sunk - either a day or an overnight stay,' Marie took it upon herself to explain.

 

'Oh, a sort of graduation trip then,' Remus nodded. 'Do they get to pick it - no educational component, I presume?'

 

'The only educational component in this place is the stack of porn mags inside the covers of the Encyclopaedia Britannica,' Joe Binns murmured.

 

'Yes, I never knew one could actually bend that way,' Marie mused. Remus stared fixedly at the table while Sev smiled maliciously at his discomfiture.

 

'We stopped letting them choose their own destination after we ended up in a lap-dancing club in Soho a few years ago,' Marie added.

 

'Yes, I remember that,' Sev drawled, watching Remus' expression with grim amusement. 'Now, that was what I call edifying.'

 

'Yes, yes,' said Ivy, waving a hand tiredly. 'So, does anyone have any ideas?'

 

'Pick something out of the air,' Sev suggested in a bored tone. 'They don't care anyway. Or take them to a hash farm, that's something they'd actually enjoy.'

 

'Severus!' Remus exclaimed reprovingly.

 

Sev rolled his eyes. 'I assume you have some wonderful plan that will suddenly make them all realise what a waste their entire lives have been, and push them on to great and good futures?'

 

'You shouldn't give up on them so easily,' Remus said quietly.

 

' _Au contraire_ , Lupin,' Sev snapped, his limited patience at an end. 'It's they who have given up on themselves.'

 

'Did you have something in mind, Remus?' Ivy asked quellingly, as Sev relaxed into a sullen scowl, his dark hair falling into his eyes. 'Lord knows, I could do without having to carry the bloody thing this year.'

 

'I can take over planning it if you like,' Remus offered. 'I'm not completely disillusioned yet - despite the strong attempts of certain people to enlighten me.' He shot a sharp glance at Sev, who ignored it, and muttered to no one in particular, 'Give me potheads over idealists any day.'

 

'That's very kind of you, Remus,' said Ivy, smiling properly for the first time. 'And may I remind you that as class teachers of 6A - Minnie - and 6B - Severus - it is your turn to accompany them as supervisors.'

 

'Oh, Lord,' Sev groaned in unfeigned agony. 'Can't somebody else do it? Please? I'll pay them!'

 

'There'd not that much money in the entire world,' Marie said, laughing, and utterly thankful she'd escaped the task this year.

~

Draco and Greg were playing Medal of Honour on Draco's PS2, while Vinnie looked on, bored, waiting for his turn. Gripping the pads for dear life, Draco finally let loose a roar of triumph as Greg's character shrivelled and died.

'I win, I win!'

 

'Point out the bloomin' obvious,' Greg muttered grumpily, as Vinnie snatched the pads from his fingers.

 

'Want a drink?' Draco offered in an attempt to be conciliatory. 'Vinnie, you want one?'

 

'Naung.' Vinnie's small eyes were fixed irrevocably on the flashing screen. Draco rolled his and beckoned Greg down the stairs.

 

His mother was in the kitchen, surrounded by a sea of expensive Turkish tiling and copper pans suspended from the ceiling. The overhead lighting shone off her blonde hair, making it glow. Beside him, Draco could _feel_ Greg salivating, and stepped on his foot. The same one that Vinnie had stepped on earlier.

 

Greg's grimace of pain switched instantly to an ingratiating smile when Narcissa looked up from the artistic thing she was doing to some red peppers.

 

'Hello, Draco, I didn't hear you come in,' she said, flashing her two thousand pound crowns, courtesy of her ex-husband.

 

'I'm just getting us a drink, Mum,' Draco said perfunctorily. 'Will dinner be ready soon?'

 

'Give me half an hour.' Narcissa turned to slide a tray into the state-of-the-art oven. 'Vegetarian lasagne.'

 

'Oh, for crying out loud, not that no-meat shit again!' Draco sighed in despair.

 

'Language, Draco!' she reproved, having remained in apparently blissful ignorance of Greg and Vinnie's swearing habits despite their ten year friendship with Draco. 'My phrenologist said that eating meat clouds your inner eye.'

 

'Phrenologist?' Draco frowned, taking two cans of Coke from the fridge and tossing one to Greg. 'Don't they read the bumps in your skull? What's he doing telling you what to eat?'

 

'He's got a secondary line in holistic nutrition,' Narcissa said, beaming angelically, and eliciting a strangled groan from Greg. She moved closer to her son, subtly moving herself out of Greg's earshot.

 

'By the way, your father wants to see you on Saturday.'

 

'No!' Draco responded vehemently, clutching his can.

 

'You have to see him, Draco,' his mother said inexorably. 'It's written into the custody agreement. Besides, he's still your father.'

 

'Not by choice!' said Draco angrily, not bothering to keep his voice down, as his mother was doing. 'You dropped him like a hot coal of hellfire, why can't I?'

 

'Draco, that's completely different,' Narcissa replied with a hint of impatience, and an air that said that the subject was closed. Draco wondered vaguely when he would learn how to do that. When he was a divorcee with an eighteen-year-old son, probably.

 

'Would you and Vinnie like to stay for dinner?' she said graciously to Greg.

 

'Sure, I'd like that, Mrs - um - Mrs Draco,' Greg said, shy as a virgin on a first date, his confusion compounded by the fact that since the divorce - despite its seven year duration - he still had no idea what to call her. With an edge of malice that lined her soul, Narcissa had never clarified it for him. With the edge of malice that lined his, Draco had never bothered to do so either.

 

As they made their way back up the stairs, Draco remarked, 'I was just thinking about Granger's hair. It's so curly. Someone should tell her about the invention of ceramic straighteners.'

 

'Yeah,' Greg said non-committally, his mind still on the blonde vision below.

 

'I get the feeling your heart just wasn't in that reply,' Draco said sarcastically.

 

'Well, you talk about her all the time, it gets bloody boring,' Greg said vaguely. 'Plus, you stare at her arse,' he added, with complete irrelevance.

 

Greg proceeded into Draco's room, from where the sounds of explosions were emanating, leaving Draco fuming in the hall. First his mother telling him he had to see his father, and now - _this_? Whatever the hell it was?

 

Angrily, he pulled the ring of the Coke can. After having been carelessly shaken during the kitchen interlude and on the journey up the stairs, it obliged by exploding frothily. All over his white shirt.

 

'SHIT!'

~

Several days later, the dying rays of the sun lit on the dark brown head of Remus J. Lupin, BA French and European Studies, Exeter University, who was still sitting at the brown plastic, coffee scarred staff-room table at half-past five in the evening, sucking thoughtfully on a biro lid.

 

'Still here for your sins, Lupin?' said Sev breezily, leaning against the doorjamb.

 

'Well, I'd hate to have been sent here for my good deeds,' Remus responded dryly.

 

'Yea gods, did Remus Lupin just make a joke?' Sev pretended to clutch his heart in agony.

 

'A mere observation, _Severus_.' Remus chewed harder on his biro, starting hard out of the smeared window. 'Did it ever strike you, Sev, how odd all our names are?'

 

'Nope,' Sev said carelessly. 'By the way, did you get in touch with your friend - you know,' he snickered, 'the vending machine repair man?'

 

'Yeah, I called him last night,' said Remus absently. 'He's calling round tomorrow.'

 

'How are you going to pay him?'

 

'Well, he offered to let his charge be a sexual favour from yours truly,' Remus said, with a faint grin, 'But I said no.'

 

'Not that way inclined, hey?' Sev's voice had just a hint too much of eagerness about it, but Remus didn't pick up on it.

 

'Towards Sirius - no.' Remus laughed. 'We were madly in love when we were younger, but he got done for drugs smuggling years back and was in prison for a while. We sort of drifted apart. I think he's got a new boyfriend now - someone he met inside.'

 

'Jeez,' Sev gulped. 'That was a little TMI, Lupin.'

 

'The question asked for it, Snape.' Remus turned and regarded him with his large, clear golden eyes.

 

'Seriously though, how are you going to pay him?' Sev asked urgently. 'I mean, the chocolate machine is broken again too - better than a punching bag for some kids, that thing. I hope you didn't offer him the bodies of your poor co-workers -'

 

Remus gave an uncharacteristic snort. 'He's not interested in women or straight men, Snape, remember?'

 

'Oh, good,' Sev said hastily. 'I'm glad of the - um - clarification.'

 

'As a matter of fact, I used a little emotional blackmail,' Remus said quickly, sounding uncomfortable. Sev opened his mouth to question, thought about the last time, and closed it again with a queasy expression.

 

'What time is he coming?' he managed. 'Hell, what's his name again?'

 

'Sirius Black.'

Sev's eyes bulged. 'Siriusly? I mean, seriously? Is he anything to the Black boy in 6A?'

 

'Which Black boy?' Lupin asked. 'I don't recall anyone of that name in my classes - I would have remembered it.' He gave a wry grin.

 

'Black - do you know, I don't know what his first name is?' Sev looked at Remus in consternation. 'I don't think anyone does. Everyone just calls him Black.'

 

'Maybe it's a nickname?' Remus suggested.

 

'Maybe.' Sev looked doubtfully, chewing his lip in thought. 'He's a tall chap, blonde hair, couple of piercing with dragon studs.'

 

'Oh, him?' Remus made a moue of distaste. 'He's - well, he's a bit of a pillock, isn't he? I heard him tormenting that poor Hermione Granger today. From her expression, it's a regular occurrence.'

 

'Well, I guess he is a bit,' Sev conceded with a knowing smile. 'But don't be fooled - he's absolutely crazy about that girl.'

 

'He's got a seriously odd way of showing it,' Remus said, disbelief writ large over his features.

'He's a seriously odd kid,' said Sev. 'I think he's got a bit of a messy family break-up in his past. Besides which, he's rather exceptionally bright, except he has no interest in taking advantage of it.'

 

'So is Granger.' Lupin permitted himself a small smile. 'Maybe they wouldn't make such a bad couple.'

 

Sev let out a bark of laughter. 'I don't think that will ever happen. She's not very good at reading people - takes them at face value too much. She truly thinks he despises her, or at least couldn't care less about her, and she hasn't got enough self-esteem to go after him.'

 

'God, who'd be eighteen again, hey?' Remus said, running his hands through his heavy, silky brown curls, which immediately fell back over his forehead. He gave Sev an easy smile, and Sev felt a jerk somewhere in the region of his navel.

 

'I wouldn't mind having the body of an eighteen-year-old,' he objected, without thinking very much about his mouth. Remus' mouth, maybe -

 

'What, all scrawny, under-developed muscles, and spots?' Remus laughed. 'Thanks, but no thanks. I earned my body, and I think I'll keep it.'

 

'You never did say why you're still here,' Sev said, quickly - anything not to have to ponder what exactly Remus' body looked like, under the battered jeans and holey woollen jumpers.

 

'Oh - just thinking about the sixth form trip.' Remus ruffled at the brochures littering the table with a hand.

 

Sev just restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 'You are such a dreamer. Do you still actually think they'll care? Where the hell did you teach before, Eton?'

 

'For two years,' Remus admitted with disarming honesty. 'What do you think of this place? Its a Scottish castle, you can hire it out, and there's loads of activities like water-skiing on the lake - '

 

'A Scottish castle?' Sev looked a little green around the gills. 'As in, in the country of Scotland?'

'Yep. That's what people generally mean by the adjective 'Scottish'.'

 

'Smart-arse. How long would we be on a bloody bus with these excuses for students?'

 

'A couple of hours. And then two nights in the castle itself.'

 

Sev looked at Remus' bright eyes and smiling red mouth, and suddenly felt very old. 'It seems like a great idea - at least, until you add actual people to it. But where on earth are you going to get the money for this? Dumbledore's still AWOL with the bankbook, we're having to resort to sexual favours to get the vending machine fixed, and most of these kids have to get summer jobs to buy their school books - those that bother to buy them, that is.'

 

Remus held up a hand. 'Amazingly enough, despite what you seem to think is my blind idealism, I did realise that. And the school is eligible for a grant from some organisation - ' he shifted rapidly through his accumulated paperwork - 'that covers the cost of things like that.' He looked up and made a face. 'It's for disadvantaged children. Anyway, I wrote to them, and they're happy to pay for it.'

 

Sev laughed incredulously. 'You know, Remus, you could be a dangerous man to have around. You're actually making me feel enthusiastic about something again.'

~

Sirius Black made ripples as he passed through the school, dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a black jumper, heavy boots and a tool belt swinging obscenely from his waist. He ran a hand through his raven's-wing hair, eyeing up fit lads over his tilted, aristocratic nose. As soon as he saw Remus, burdened under a stack of copies to be marked, he dropped the supercilious act and greeted him with unfeigned delight, also relieving him of his burden with a noticeable lack of effort.

 

'Remus!'

 

Remus had to laugh at his puppy-like enthusiasm, which he showed at every possible occasion and which he had never grown out of.

 

'I was just going to the staffroom. You can come with me and have a look this coffee machine.'

 

'Ah, Remus.' Sirius waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 'I know it's been a long time since we were together, but surely you must remember that you never came with me?'

 

Pansy Parkinson, who was passing by, paused in the middle of blowing a huge pink bubble to eye them in shock. It was clear that she was only prevented from giggling by the imminent danger of choking such a course of action would entail.

 

'Chewing gum is against the rules, Miss Parkinson!' Remus called after her as he hurried Sirius up the stairs, knowing his ears were turning red. Sirius, as usual, simply revelled in the attention.

 

'I bet they just quiver when you use that manly tone of voice, huh?' Sirius said seductively as they entered the staffroom. Remus could feel the blush spreading to his whole face. Sev, who was the room's only occupant, turned noticeably pale under his sallow complexion.

 

'I'll leave you to it,' he muttered, grabbing his coffee cup instead of his biro by mistake and hurrying out of the room.

 

'Well, now,' Sirius whistled. 'Either I have a more instantaneous effect than I realised, or that guy has the hots for you.'

 

'Shut up, Sirius, you prize idiot,' said Lupin serenely, holding his hand out behind him without turning around. Sev grabbed his biro from it and fled from the room again, muttering his thanks.

~

Remus and Sirius passed Black and his two lolloping mates on their way to the vending machine. Sirius gave Black a thoughtful look, which he returned with a sneer. For some reason this made Sirius smile.

'Do you know him?' Remus inquired, remembering that they shared the same name.

 

'Nah. He looks oddly familiar, though,' Sirius shrugged.

 

'His name is Black, too,' Remus offered.

 

'Really? Could be a second cousin. A lot of my family comes from near here.'

 

'I didn't know that.'

 

'You wouldn't.' Sirius smiled grimly. 'I doubt you'd be well up on ruling drug-baron families, now really?'

 

'Oh. Oh god.' Remus bit his lip as he saw who was standing by the machine. It was the Potter kid and his permanently stoned best mate. Even from here, Remus could see the desperation in Potter's eyes.

 

'All right?' Potter said, nodding at them.

'Sirius is going to fix the machine,' Remus said desperately.

 

'Oh, good.' Potter was fairly quiet, Remus recalled, vaguely rebellious but mainly just lost.

 

'Where'd you get that scar, kid?' Sirius asked genially, laying out his tools. ''S odd shape - lightning bolt.'

 

'I got it in the car crash where my parents died, when I was one,' Potter said in a low voice.

 

'Ah, shit man.' There was genuine sympathy in Sirius' voice. 'That sucks.'

 

'I can't remember them.' Potter shrugged.

 

'So, do you have a foster family now?' Sirius asked.

 

'No, I live with my aunt and uncle.'

 

'Treat you well, do they?'

 

'All right.' For the first time, Remus noticed Potter's scrawny wrists, his prominent cheekbones and the deep violet shadows under his eyes. All right was as far from correct as it was from left. And now he was stuck with a best friend turning into a drug addict in front of him.

 

Potter waited quietly until Sirius was finished, then bought himself a Snickers. Remus felt his heart twist in his chest as Potter counted out the money in five pence pieces. Sirius must have seen it too, for he leant over and dropped a handful of pound coins into his hand.

 

'From the machine,' he said, and winked.

 

As they walked away, Sirius turned to Remus with a sigh. 'I suppose you're going to tell me off now for nicking from the machine.'

 

Remus turned to him, his golden eyes hooded and sad. 'Actually, it couldn't have been further from my mind.'

~

 

Seamus was exhausted. He stumbled down the halls, his eyes half shut, miraculously not bumping into anyone until -

 

'Watch it, you great wanker!'

 

Dean. Great.

 

Seamus wedged his eyes open a little further and took in Dean's furious face, inches from his own, and grimaced. He made to walk on, but Dean wasn't having any of it.

 

'I have told you over and over,' he was raging, his brown eyes sparking chips of ice. 'I'm not interested, so could you bloody well leave me alone!'

 

'I get it!' Seamus snapped. 'I'm sorry I bumped into you. I wasn't looking where I was going, otherwise I would have headed in the opposite direction when I saw you. Towards Tibet, preferably.'

 

'Oh.' Dean looked a little put out, but Seamus wasn't in the mood to humour him, shooting him a death glare which was somewhat diluted in wrath by the huge yawn that overtook it .

 

'Look,' Dean began uncomfortably, 'I liked being mates with you, its just that -'

 

'You don't fancy me, I know,' Seamus sighed. 'I still have a bruise from where you tried to indent my head in the wall.'

 

'Yeah, I just don't - you know,' said Dean, looking shifty.

 

'How about we forget it? Not forget it, but,' Seamus fumbled.

 

'Start over?' Dean smiled brilliantly. 'Yeah, cool. I have missed having you as a mate, you know. I don't know anyone else who's so utterly useless at football. You're a great ego booster.'

 

'Thanks,' Seamus muttered, a little indignantly, but too pleased with the turn of events to jeopardise it now.

 

'So why are you walking around looking like the living dead?' Dean inquired, as they set off down the hall together, companionably, but careful not to accidentally brush against each other.

 

'What do you mean?'

 

'The last few days - you look like you haven't slept at all.'

 

'Oh, that.' Seamus shrugged. 'I've been having the dreams again. About the castle, and the owls.'

 

'Those again?' Dean frowned. 'Funny, that. I've been having my ones again too. Towers and paintbrushes, remember?'

 

'Yeah, I do.' Seamus grinned. 'But that's not what's been making me tired. Those dreams always just stop all of a sudden, and I'm awake, and bored, and - '

 

'Yes, you can just stop there,' Dean commanded. 'I really don't want to know.'

 

'Two words - Orlando Bloom,' Seamus smirked.

 

'Ahh!' Dean covered his face with his hands. 'It's like having a bloody girl mate. I knew I should never have taken you to see The Return of the King.'

 

'Muhaha. A shadow and a threat has been growing in my mind.'

 

'Interesting. Do you think you might be gay? Oh wait, you are.'

 

There was a tense pause. Then Seamus thumped him on the back of the head.

 

'Now, you will die, for without me to propagate, the Kingdoms of Men shall fail!'

 

'Oh, Jesus.'

 

'He's not here, can I take a message?'

 

~

Hermione wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but now Black was sitting next to her in almost _every_ class. McGonagall had moved him in English; he had moved himself in Chemistry. And now, in History, Mr Binns had announced that he was changing the seating arrangements and that he would be happy to show the door to anyone who didn't follow them from here on in. Hermione wondered if she was the only one who noticed the desperate glint of hope in his eye when he said that.

 

Soon enough there was a murderous glint in her own eye, when it transpired that he had seated her next to Black at the back of the class. Not only had he lined her up for endless tormenting, she wasn't even going to be able to hear what was going on at the front of the class. Mr Binns had a droning, monotone and above all very _low_ voice.

 

Black had become even more truly insufferable since he had begun going out with Pansy Parkinson. Hermione had no idea what he saw in her - despite being creatively capable of putting out, her brains wouldn't have filled even half an eggcup, she had a huge forehead and she walked like a duck.

 

Maybe that _was_ the attraction.

 

Hermione ground her teeth together.

 

She most definitely did not want to be thinking about this. Damn Binns! The one midway interested student he had, and what did he do with her? Stuck her at the back with a notorious dosser. Oh, well done.

 

Closing her eyes for a moment and trying to think calm thoughts, she picked up her books and made her way back to her assigned desk. Only to see Black grinning at her like the Cheshire Cat. She almost demanded to know what he was smiling about, before realising that it would certainly have a lot to do with Pansy, and as a consequence any answer would be unspeakably disgusting.

 

Choosing the less volatile option of completely ignoring him, she opened her notes copy and strained to catch what Binns was saying.

 

'Don't have a heart attack, Granger,' Black said in amusement. 'Currently he's pointing out to the doped-up Weasel child that his essay on Disraeli should not have contained any references to sex with small chickens.'

 

Hermione frowned at him, but the chicken impression that Ron was now giving - complete with clucking - seemed to back up his ludicrous statement. Beside Ron, Harry had his head buried in his arms, in what looked a lot like abject despair.

 

For some reason, Black didn't seem to be in a chatty mood. He was smiling to himself, and performing his usual table-flicking routine. Hermione decided that, on the whole, she could stand that as long as he didn't talk.

Within a few minutes, she had forgotten his existence entirely, focusing completely on Binns' lecture. She wrote swiftly in a clear, rounded script, occasionally pushing her hair out of her eyes. Its springy curls defied any form of corralling, and it was the bane of her life. However, the frequent tucking of hair behind a handy ear was such an ingrained habit that even with a crew cut she figured she'd still do it. Every so often, she looked up at the notes Binns had scrawled on the board, squinting slightly, and biting the side of her lip.

 

When the class was over, she ceased writing with a satisfied sigh and stuffed her pens into their case. She headed out of the classroom without a backward glance, leaving Black tilted back in his seat with the same expression of boredom he had worn for the entire class.

 

She didn't register him watching her leave, no more than she had realised that for the entire class, except when jotting a desultory note, he hadn't taken his eyes off her.

~

 

 

Sev gave a rare genuine smile as the coffee machine spurted dark brown liquid - the exact shade of Remus' hair, actually - into his chipped mug. The smile lit up his whole face, the weak early spring sunlight catching glints off his rather crooked teeth.

 

'Ah, pure caffeine,' he sighed, inhaling the scent drifting from his mug as if it were a rare Brazilian connoisseur's brand rather than cheap, bulk-bought, no-label decaff.

 

Remus looked up from his stack of marking, taking in the sight. Sev's head was tilted back, strands of dark hair tangled in his eyebrows while the rest slid back over his head, dripping into the collar of his shirt. His deep-set eyes were half closed, his generous mouth curling in pleasure. He was dressed in leather trousers, as he was at least once a week.

 

'Are they uncomfortable?' Remus - a devotee of baggy jeans and fraying faux-cashmere pullovers - asked curiously.

 

Sev's eyes snapped fully open, his expression wary at having been caught displaying emotion. 'Are what uncomfortable.'

 

'The leather trousers,' Remus said patiently, gesturing at Sev's lower half with a chewed biro. A dark flush unaccountably stained Sev's hollow cheeks.

 

'Well, no. Once you get used to them.'

 

'Definitely not a vegetarian then,' Remus said reassuringly.

 

Sev shuddered delicately. 'God no. I couldn't live without my red meat.'

 

'Yes, they do say that animal rights campaigners protest more against fur than leather only because women in mink coats are far less intimidating than Hell's Angels,' Remus mused.

 

Sev raised one dark eyebrow - no mean feat.

 

'Were you ever a biker, then?' Remus asked cheerfully.

 

'No.' Sev rolled his eyes. 'I was more in the brooding poet mould, if you must know - although my poetry was, and still is, abysmal.'

 

'Can I read some?'

 

'When there's a cold day in hell, Remus, then yes, certainly.'

 

They were both momentarily distracted by the entrance of the universally despised philosophy teacher, Sybil Trelawney. As ever attired in floating scarves and gypsy skirts, Indian bangles clanking heavily at her wrists, she looked like a cross between Shiva and a Portobello Market hawker. Her eyes lit up when she spotted Remus. Ignoring Sev, whose features had sunk into a vicious scowl, she floated over to them.

 

'My dear Remus! You have a free class, I see. Would you like me to do that tarot reading for you now?'

 

'Not unless you're going to predict a tall dark stranger for me,' Remus said brightly. Sev choked on air. 'Come on, Severus, we have to do that - thing, remember?'

 

'Oh, yes,' said Sev, gasping. 'The - thing. The really important thing. Right. Better go now.'

 

'Yes, sorry about that,' Remus said, flashing a mega-watt smile at Sybil so that she forgot entirely what they were talking about. 'Another time.'

 

As they exited the room at speed, Trewlawny fluttered her scarves and muttered to herself, ' _Such_ a lovely boy. And so enamoured of me!'

~

 

'I think she has a crush on you!' Sev gasped out, in between hoots of laughter. They were doubled over in the space behind the bike sheds, which Sev had cleared with a glare and a threat of cigarette confiscation.

 

'Oh, Lord.' Remus bit his lip, raking a hand through his damp curls, the light drizzle having settled on them both like stronghold hairspray. 'I feel sixteen again, and trying to fend off infatuated girls with Sirius.'

 

'Were you very popular, then?'

 

'Inexplicably, yes. Sirius was incredibly so, but I came in for my fair share.' Remus shook his head in bemusement, sending little droplets of water flying from his wet locks.

 

'I can see why,' Sev said, without thinking. Every time Remus reached up a hand to push his hair back, it drew up the frayed hem of his jumper, revealing the tail ends of a white shirt and a hint - just a tiny hint - of rippled muscle and skin covered in downy hair.

 

Remus chose to ignore the heated undercurrents, shrugging modestly. 'Thanks. But I think it had a lot more to do with the fact that we were the school troublemakers, and co-owned this huge monster of a motorcycle.' He laughed at the expression on Sev's face. 'Yes, I know - I look like more of a bicycle person, no? But it was Sirius' idea, of course.'

 

'It clearly worked,' Sev remarked, raising one eyebrow again.

 

'Yes - it did get me into bed. Eventually.' Remus watched Sev's red and spluttering face for a while. 'You know, for someone who comes across as unshockable, you're ridiculously easy to stun.'

 

'It's not fair!' Sev complained. 'You keep springing these clinkers on me.'

 

'How long have you been teaching here, Severus?'

 

'Ten years,' Sev returned guardedly.

 

'And you mean to say that vaguely explicit sexual talk still gets your knickers in twist?'

 

'I wear boxers, not briefs,' Sev said with a pained expression. 'And you are a relatively mature teacher - I thought - not a rabid teenage sex bunny.'

 

'Well, I wouldn't say I'm a sex bunny,' Remus said thoughtfully, 'A sex wolf, maybe. But mature? Spare me, please.'

 

'Ha! I knew something about that reliable, tweed-jacket with leather elbows domesticity was off!' Sev said triumphantly. 'You're not really like that at all, are you?'

 

Remus started walking back towards the school as the bell rung. 'You're the one who's brilliant at reading people,' he yelled over his shoulder as the wind began to pick up. 'You tell me!'

 

Preoccupied with not staring at Remus' rather - very - Oh God - attractive arse, Sev didn't answer. Only when the rain began to pelt down did he pause to think that moving indoors might be a Very Bright Idea.


	2. What The Thunder Said

Minnie McGonagall would not be the first to admit that she did not have many pleasures in her life. She would have to join an extensive queue of people who were clamouring to do it for her. Admittedly, this was mainly out of spite, but all the same there was an awful lot of truth in it.

However, even she couldn't deny the thrill of delight when she opened the door of the staffroom early one Tuesday morning - as ever, among the first teachers to arrive, if not _the_ first - to find Bertie Dumbledore sitting hunched up on one of the horrible polypropene chairs.

Minnie had been in love with Bertie since the first time she'd ever seen him. Fresh out of teacher training college thirty years before, his flashing blue eyes, wild auburn hair and rip-roaring laugh made her think there might be something better than cats out there, after all.

She had taken the post of English teacher at Oakfield when it was offered her, although what she had always wanted to do was to go back to college, get her Masters and eventually pursue a Ph.D - a lifelong dream. She had stayed because she wanted to be near Bertie, despite never having the courage to admit her passion - and passion it was that quivered in the upright, prim and proper little school marm's soul.

And she had watched in despair as all his bright hopes faded and all his daring schemes collapsed to dust, once burdened with the heavy weight of reality and bureaucracy. Felt her heart turn to lead as he turned increasingly to the bottom of a bottle for solace.

It was a horrible, odd, tearing feeling, both loving someone enough to sacrifice one's hopes and dreams and aspirations for them, and hating them for so completely for betraying both themselves and all they had ever stood for.

Still, she could not prevent the guilty, pleasurable squirming in her stomach at the sight of his - too thin! - figure huddled over the table, his gingery hair shot through with grey now, his once-bright eyes dim and red-webbed, his chin scratchy with several days growth.

'Minerva.' The voice sounded raw, out of practice. 'Up with the birds, as ever.'

'It's good to see you back,' she said, and added, with her typical bluntness, 'Although it would be better to have seen you earlier, and actually looking good.'

Bertie made a sound that was halfway between a sob and a laugh. 'Have I failed you, Minerva?'

'Yes,' she said honestly.

'I'm sorry.' The heavy bags under his eyes seemed to deepen.

'It's too late,' she said, shrugging dismissively. 'I've already forgiven you.'

She moved towards the coffee machine, but he caught her hand. 'What do you want, Bertie?' she asked with an attempt at sternness, but inside her heart was skittering about her thoracic cavity, and hormones were hopping down to her fingers, enclosed in his warm, slightly muggy grasp, like fleas off a wet dog.

'Want?' He laughed hollowly. 'I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to make this school a bright, happy place, where children could come to learn, not just pass the time before getting pregnant or dying of a drug overdose or signing on.'

'I don't know what to say, Bertie,' Minnie admitted sadly. 'I don't know how to help you get that for them because - well, I never even wanted to be a teacher, not really, I just don't care enough. But you did, once. Maybe -' she was struggling now, not entirely sure what she was trying to say. 'Maybe you could care again.'

'Again? I never stopped, Minnie! It just got so painful that I had to find some way of numbing the agony.'

'Caring shouldn't be that painful,' Minnie argued, lying through her teeth. Of course caring hurt; the word was basically a synonym for pain. The happiest people, in her opinion, were the ones that didn't care. The most satisfied students were the ones who didn't give a damn about their marks or their futures, the ones who never knew the agony of aspiring for more than they had.

Bertie was looking at her through those once-so-blue eyes, a spark of understanding in them. 'No, that's wrong,' he said, almost to himself. 'But you have to say it, or the despair will be too much even to get up in the morning.'

'I care for you, Bertie,' Minnie said desperately. 'I wish that you could find meaning in your life again. This school was like your child, but - but, I don't know, when things got too tough, you copped out. It wasn't on, Bertie.' The anger was blazing from her eyes now, years of pent-up frustration and sorrow giving added vehemence to her words. 'Back then, we all believed in you. But a couple of setbacks, and that was it. The school was doomed. It was bad then, it's still bad, but you know what, there's still some hope in it. If you believe in anything you can believe in hope. I dare you - just walk around your school for a while, really look at it, and not in an alcohol-blinded daze, and come back and tell me that it's not worth fighting for.'

Her words seemed to be working some magic, for Bertie was sitting up straighter and the ever-present depressed and self-pitying look was dimming somewhat.

'You had the makings of a great leader!' she ended with a hiss. 'It must still be there!'

'What can I do?' he asked, sounding like a lost little child. 'I don't know where to begin.'

Minnie felt the first faint quiverings of hope.

'I think,' she said thoughtfully, 'that you should talk to Remus Lupin.'

 

Lucius' plan to meet with his son, as he did quasi-regularly, had fallen through. Draco was relieved, but not altogether surprised. Therefore, it came as something of a shock to him, entering the kitchen on a Tuesday morning a few weeks later, to find his father sitting at the table. His mother had gone to her French class, as per usual, and Draco had been rather looking forward to a solitary breakfast, unplagued by inquiries after Pansy, his schoolwork, Vinnie and Greg, and of course, the ever-feared: 'When are you bringing your girlfriend home to meet me?'

Therefore, he was not particularly disposed to be civil.

'What are you doing here?' he asked rudely.

His father looked up. Like his son, he had blonde curtains of hair, but whereas Draco's was a darker, corn shade, Lucius' verged on being silver. He shared his son's grey eyes, his long, almost equine face and his pointed chin.

'I am your father,' he pointed out mildly.

'So everyone keeps telling me,' Draco said nastily, stomping over to the coffee filter. 'But, do you know, no one's ever offered me solid proof of that fact. Plus, fathers, in general, tend to stick around a bit more. And this isn't your house, more to the point.'

'I bought it,' Lucius laughed, leaning back and stroking his chin, looking at Draco with a piercing gaze.

'But it's in Mum's name,' Draco said, pouring out a huge, American-style mug of dark expresso.

Lucius smiled ruefully. 'Your mother was always very astute.' He paused, clearing his throat self-consciously. 'And if I hadn't been in jail so much, I would have visited you more.'

'Its nearly a year and a half - two years - since you got out.'

'Yes, but - well, to be honest I wasn't entirely sure you wanted to see me,' Lucius regarded his son uncomfortably, as Draco stirred in several spoons of sugar. 'I thought you hated coffee?'

'I do.' Draco seated himself at the table, opposite his father. 'This is for you.'

~

That Tuesday, Hermione was mildly disgusted to find that Black was out, and more to the point, that she missed him. Oh, not in a _caring_ sense. Just that - she noticed he was gone, and she'd never done that before. It was irritating - like having a Black-shaped hole in a universe that previously had been utterly complete without him.

English seemed somehow off-colour without Black muttering imprecations in her ear and making lewd suggestions about McGonagall's sex life. Chemistry felt wrong without him blithely copying her experiments and reading his answers out of her homework. No matter that when he was actually there and doing these things, she glared at him - as if her eyes were miniature ray-guns which could melt him to a smouldering pile of melted tissues with one glance - and clucked her tongue and tried without success to remove herself and her books out of his reach. Life suddenly seemed that bit duller without him around, and she hated herself for it.

Moreover, Black had been telling the truth when he said that he didn't skip school much, for this was the first day out that he'd had since she'd started - been forced - to endure his company in every class.

That was another thing she couldn't stand. That she actually _knew_ that.

She admitted as much to Blaise, in the girl's toilets, during breaktime. The toilets were practically deserted, as ever. The school body had long ago stopped bothering to reprimand smokers, and instead seen to the establishment of a smoking room in a large unused classroom near the canteen. No one hung out in the toilets to smoke uncomfortably out of a window when they could do it freely in a comfortable (relatively) plastic chair with the majority of the school in situ for added entertainment.

Blaise had somehow become her friend. Hermione hadn't really had one before, on the one hand not really wanting to associate with the sort of people who attended Oakfield, and on the other being a pretty self-contained person, especially if she had a book. But one breaktime, Blaise had sought her out. Sat down on the bench next to her, talking about inconsequential things. Lavender and her obsession with her hair. How annoying that was. How did-you-know-that-Ron's-doing-hash, probably crack and heroin too, what-a-surprise-not. And she made Hermione laugh with her dry sense of humour and her complete disrespect for everyone, and Hermione had often thought in her head a lot of the things Blaise said aloud. Blaise was intelligent, too, in her own, specialised way, with her extensive knowledge of rock bands, socialism and the human condition. Hermione, strictly apolitical, had found herself becoming embroiled in a debate with Blaise over the merits of communism. That was it - they were friends.

The bathroom was a quiet and warm - if not particularly clean - place to congregate, and they found themselves there almost every day, without even planning it.

Blaise was looking into the cracked mirror, inspecting her heavily coated eyelashes, unperturbed as the torrent of Hermione's vitriol and self-abuse washed over her.

'And, well, he just pisses me off, as you know, but,' Hermione finished helplessly.

'I suppose you have considered,' Blaise said carefully, for Hermione's touchiness was well-known and feared wherever people gathered to disparage Pratchett (nowadays, in very low voices), 'the fact that you might - ahem - fancy him?'

Hermione opened her mouth to scream a raging denial, and shut it again.

'Well, no, I haven't,' she said, amazed that Blaise could get to the heart of the problem so easily and yet so inoffensively. 'I spend most of the time denying that he likes me and insisting that he's a complete twerp, I guess I didn't have time to wonder about that.' She felt herself blushing, and quickly pushed the button on the hand-dryer to provide an alibi for her red cheeks.

'Well, let's,' Blaise advised. 'He likes you, that's pretty damn obvious. No, don't object for a minute, maybe think _why_ it is you object to that so - violently. Also, you have some kind of freaky connection, even if it is just a skirmish of insults. And lastly, you're missing him, so on some level he's important to you.'

'That's all true,' Hermione conceded reluctantly. 'All right, so, the evidence seems to show that I - sort of - like him - a little! But leaving aside what I'm feeling - what about him? You said he fancies me, or something. Well, be that as it may, having someone like me is not a prerequisite for me liking _them_. I mean, I adored Victor Krum for years, since about first year, until he left, and he paid more attention to his shoes than to me.'

'Oh, I remember that.' Blaise giggled - it was a habit she was finding hard to shake.

'You did?'

'Oh, the whole school knew about that,' Blaise said vaguely. 'Not that they cared, really, or gossiped about it unless it was a slow week on the 'who's-up-the-duff' front.'

Hermione grimaced, but the current situation was more pressing than the revelation of past shames. 'Right, whatever. The thing is, you have no proof that he fancies me. In fact, he treats me like dirt. Dirt from a Calcutta slum distilled through Sellafield's sewage system. I'd go so far as to say he hates me.'

'There's a fine line,' Blaise began, but Hermione cut in impatiently.

'Okay, severely dislikes me, then.'

'Does he, though?'

'Blaise!' Hermione shook her head in frustration. 'He laughs when I get things wrong in class, like it's some kind of personal triumph for him. He rolls his eyes when I say things, and mutters 'shut up' when I ask questions. He's always trying to get me in trouble! He teases me the whole time, he, he, _why_ are you laughing?'

'Me? Laughing?' said Blaise innocently. 'The most I can aspire to is a throaty giggle, come on.'

~

Sev had been aware for some time that the young student teacher, Serina he thought her name was, had something of a crush on him. Well, no, crush was the wrong word; that was a term for the silly self-flattery that Trelawney engaged in as regards Lupin. ( _She_ was far too old for _him_ , for one thing, and divorced, and a complete idiot. _He_ needed someone who'd provide a lot more mental stimulation, who was up for a laugh, even, dare we say, a little less out of their tree....)

Anyhow, Serina had some kind of regard for him, that much was very clear. It was a very practised, and predatory, sort of attraction that she indulged in. The dropping of a pen to lean down and expose a swelling of skin, the crossing of long legs encased in sheer silk, even the provocative twirling of hair around a slim finger with a pointed, shiny pink talon - so different from Lupin's square fingers, his gnawed nails and the flecks of biro ink that denoted his constant activity.

Sev knew, in a detached sort of way, that Serina was an extremely seductive woman. She had masses of long, dark hair, an artfully made-up face and a massive range of tight sweaters and short skirts in dark, passionate colour like crimson, emerald, violet. Her wardrobe had to be the size of a small country, like Australia. He had to commend her on her dress sense, which was superb, and moreover exactly tailored to what she was - unpolitically correctly, a high-class slut.

Or maybe that was just his 'gay' side talking.

Although _Lupin_ had never shown any evidence of such snideness.

Mind you, _was_ Lupin gay? All right, there was the banged-up tradesman mate of his, but aside from that......and he was a surprising character. It was unlikely that Lupin had fabricated that whole story about him and Sirius, but perhaps it was merely a close friendship that Lupin had hyperbolised for......the shock quotient?

Did Lupin ever, actually lie? Was his a deceitful nature?

These thoughts made a mess of Sev's head, giving him an air of permanent confusion mixed with annoyance.

They also meant that, when Selina asked him out, with sex on her mind and in her eyes, he said yes.

~

As the bell rang for class, Hermione pulled Blaise away from the mirror, refusing to let her be late even though 'It's only Chemistry, and Snape doesn't care.'

'He loves you lot anyway.'

'He's _gay_ , Hermione. That's denial. Although its nothing to Lavender's - she's planned out their whole life together, including the number of kids and the make of car they'll have.'

'But - the leather trousers!'

' _Exactly.'_

As their voices faded into the distance, the door to a cubicle cautiously opened -as if pushed by a hand, connected to a person who had been there the entire time....

~

Minnie happened to be in the staffroom when Selina Vector asked Snape out. She was glad she was, because Selina had talked about it for ages (well, a week, at least) and Minnie would have felt rather miffed to have been left out of the fun. After all, Snape was gay. It was only Selina and the new chap, Lupin, who didn't seemed to have grasped this. Mind you, she was fairly certain that Snape hadn't either.

So all in all, she was pleased to be present when the momentous occasion occurred.

Selina had sashayed her way over to him, in that insinuating way she had. No doubt it earned her multiple rewards at those disco thingys, but from the security of age, wisdom and of course, cynicism, Minnie found it rather irritating and not a little pathetic.

'Hi, Severus,' she whispered sexily, pouting like mad.

'Oh, hello, Serina,' he replied distractedly, looking up from a piece of paper on which he was doodling. Minnie bit her lip to stop herself from bursting out laughing. She shared a secret smile with Marie Sinistra, who was the only other of the old-crowd - and hence privy to circumstances - in the room. Lupin didn't count.

'It's Selina,' Selina said, more loudly and emphatically.

'Oh, sorry,' Snape said, looking up at her and smiling that rare, beautiful, angelic smile that made Minnie, for a moment, forgive and even feel sorry for Selina in what she was trying to do.

'I was wondering....'

Well, that was the gist of it. But as she heard Sev - shock and awe - reply 'yes' she was distracted by the look on young Lupin's face. That which before had been smiling and amused was suddenly shut off, dead. It was as if a brick wall had descended over the landscape of a sunset. Abruptly, he stood up and left the room, scattering papers and threads from his jumper haphazardly as he went. Minnie took the opportunity to raise her eyebrows at Marie in wonder and not a little worry. Snape appeared to be looking after him with much the same expression, but he was trapped by Selina's small hand against his chest, reigning him in to plan their date - 'Friday would be really good for me, what about - '.

Finally Snape shook her off and headed for the stairs at speed. Content and self-satisfied, Selina didn't notice the desperate expression on his face as she set about pouring herself a cup of coffee, humming as she did so.

With the rapid slow-walk that years of teaching had perfected, Minnie got to the table and picked up the scrap of paper that Snape had left. Scanning it quickly, her eyes widened and she stuffed it into her skirt pocket before anyone saw it.

At that moment, Ivy came in, a pained look on my face.

'For God's sake,' she said piteously, as Minnie looked at her guiltily, Marie with tired interest and Selina with inflated confidence in the pulling power of her cleavage.

'They let out the locusts in the biology lab. _Again_.'

~

Draco's father had persuaded him to take the day off of school, despite Draco's protests.

'I have _school_ , Dad.' He almost said, 'What about Hermione?' but he remembered that any knowledge his father had about the love life of his son was currently restricted to Pansy, the duck-faced blonde, alone. (Oh yes, he had heard Hermione calling her that. She'd obviously read it out of his own mind, the psychic little minx.)

'So?'

There really wasn't any arguing with that brand of persuasive argument.

Lucius insisted on going to the local playground, despite the fact that Draco was no longer four years old, and in any case it was, of course, a junkie's hangout. Syringes and burnt tinfoil crunched under their feet as they made their way to the dilapidated swings, still intact, although much graffitied and banged about (even druggies need something to sit on).

'Why did you insist we go here?' Draco said, perching on a battered swing and attempting exasperation through chattering teeth.

'Nostalgia, perhaps,' said Lucius, somewhat mistily.

'You used to play in this dump?' Draco grimaced.

'Play? God no.' Lucius made an affronted face. 'No, I remember the good old days ... when we were just starting out on the sliding scale of soft to hard drugs. Used to push 'em here, too.'

'Dad, that is sick,' said Draco conversationally, staring at the ground.

'Yes, sorry son.' There was a pause. 'Look, the reason I brought you here is that I think I owe you an explanation.'

'For what? I know you got done for possession, that's no secret.'

'Not that. The reason why me and your mother broke up.'

'Oh, that.' Draco shrugged. 'Mum always said you had 'irreconcilable differences.' It was ages before I figured she got that off some American law programme.'

Lucius had an odd look on his face. 'Well, in fact that's as close to the truth as you could possibly get.'

'How do you mean?' Draco turned to look his at his father face-on, uncomprehending.

'Son, I'm gay.'

'WHAT?'

~

Hermione and Blaise had originally set out to brave the withering cold in the courtyard, but were finally driven to concession when they lost feeling in their fingers.

They stood in the bathroom, alternately freezing then burning their bare legs on the one radiator, and blasting their hands beneath the hot-air dryer.

'So Blaise, who do _you_ fancy in school?' Hermione asked lazily.

Blaise coloured up a little. 'You'll laugh.'

'Considering the choice, I'd probably cry.'

'Well, Black's taken of course.'

'Darling Duckface.'

Blaise snorted. 'I meant by you.'

It was Hermione's turn to blush. 'Please don't say that, you'll only make it worse,' she pleaded. 'I want to get over this - stupidity - as soon as possible.'

'Why?' Blaise wanted to know.

'Why?' Hermione repeated, baffled. 'It's a -a distraction. I mean, even if, in some alternate dimension, we actually did get together, where would it get me in the end? A boyfriend - who incidentally uses me as a verbal punch-bag - for a couple of months. There's no continuity there, nothing real.'

Blaise was looking at her with a mixture of pity and contempt on her pale, almost triangular face.

'What?'

'Hermione, do yourself a favour, and start living now - not when you go to uni, not in ten years time, when you've got a good job and a house and a pension fund, do it _now_ before you forget how to.'

'What's that supposed to mean?' Hermione asked, a little frightened by her intensity.

'Well, look at you. You cut yourself off completely from everyone here. Fair enough, you think studying is important and you want to go to a good college. But it's not everything. Look at how much you deny yourself because you don't think that this is your real life. You've made no friends here - we wouldn't be mates except I basically shoved you into it. You refuse to face the fact that you fancy Black because you think it's pointless, even though the times when you're with him are the only times you feel really alive. And yet you want to - what did you say? 'Get over it as soon as possible'? I have to tell you, missy, that living is a habit that's hard to shake off, whether you started it off your own steam or someone else opened your eyes for you.'

Hermione stared at her, open-mouthed and not a little stunned.

'And you don't even put any effort into how you look,' Blaise added critically. 'I'm not saying everyone should be as shallow as Lavender - '

'Or Pansy's forehead,' Hermione muttered, eliciting another snort from Blaise.

'Seriously, though, you act as if you don't care at all. That's not good. Caring is what living is all about, and you could look quite good if you tried a little.'

'Well, thanks,' said Hermione, piqued. 'Here I was thinking I was happy with how I am, an individual, but in fact it turns out that after all, I'm just not making an _effort_.'

'Exactly,' Blaise replied equably. 'Here, look.' She grabbed Hermione around the waist and deftly rolled up the waistband of her skirt about two inches, as Hermione let out a yell of protest.

'You can see my knees!'

'Mmm. Lavender's are a lot fatter, that'll piss her off. What's with all the scars, though?'

'I fell a lot when I was younger - climbing trees and stuff,' Hermione said defensively.

'A tomboy, eh? Who'd have thought it?'

'I'm not going to leave it like this, you know.'

'Yes, you are. Because you have something to prove to yourself.'

'And what is that, pray?'

'That you are who you think you are - not what other people want you to be. They want you to be the swot they've always seen. I'm going to give you a few more options and you are _not_ going to choose the frumpy look just because you're scared of all the others. Oh, and you're coming to my house this evening to play with my ceramic straightener.'

'But - I have study - revision,' Hermione protested.

'It can wait for one night, can't it?'

'Yeah,' Hermione acceded. 'But - ' her faced paled in fear, 'What if that starts a downward slide? What if I keep missing study, and - '

'Start living instead?' Blaise's tone was dry. She added softly, 'Don't you think that would be the tiniest little bit - _exciting_?'

As Hermione followed her out of the bathroom, a small horrible part of her was madly agreeing.

~

Dean and Seamus spent lunchtime sitting on the flight of stairs near the vending machine, being part of the small minority of non-smokers in Oakfield. Seamus had a bouncing ball, and was idly hopping it off the wall. Dean was waxing lyrical about Tolkien, while Seamus listened with a half-smile.

Eventually he felt compelled to say what was on his mind.

'Dean, this is truly fascinating,' he said, he hoped with sincerity, because it was. 'But you are eighteen now, and I really think you need a girlfriend.'

'What?' Dean fell off his step in shock, falling hard on his back on the floor. Seamus, shaking his head, reached down to grab his hand and unceremoniously haul him back up ( _not_ thinking any bad naughty thoughts about this hand, none at all, no siree).

'Books and films and football are all very well, my friend,' Seamus made a 'gay' leer that never failed to amuse Dean. 'But a time comes in a young boy's life when he needs a little something more. In a word: sex.'

Dean nearly fell off the step again.

Spluttering, he managed, 'Thanks, but not thanks, Seamus. I can manage that on my own.'

'But you see, you can't. So as a proper gay best friend, I've decided to spice up your love life.'

'Wha _\- Seamus_ , what the hell do you think - ' Dean was left mouthing his protests as Seamus stood up and waved at someone, and Dean's natural embarrassment at his situation shut down his mouth for him.

Seamus leapt down the steps in a balletic jete, leaving Dean to stomp reluctantly after him. When he caught up, Seamus had his arm thrown loosely around the narrow shoulders of a petite, giggling redhead.

'Ah, here's the man of the hour!' Seamus said in delight, removing his mouth from the girl's ear, into which he had been whispering with excessive secrecy. Dean mooched at little closer, feeling inordinately sulky. Any minute now, and he'd be wailing for his Mummy.

'This is the one I told you about,' Seamus said in a clearly audible murmur. 'Dean, my friend, this is Ginny.' The redhead flashed him a winning smile from underneath Seamus' arm.

'Hi,' Dean mumbled, horrified to discover that a blush was working its way up his neck.

'So, what do you think?' Seamus was nearly jumping up and down from excitement, carrying Ginny along in his jiggling.

'I like him,' she said, tossing her mane of long silken curls out of her eyes in a practised gesture. Seamus gave a very gay yelp of delight, and used his encircling hand to shove her forward.

'Aren't you Ron's sister?' Dean asked uncomfortably. Despite casting desperately about for a topic of conversation, this was the best he could muster.

'Only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,' she said sombrely, with a betraying glint of mischief in her dark brown eyes, which matched his own almost incestuously.

Dean laughed, in a mixture of amusement and relief. Maybe Seamus had a point, after all.....

~

Draco had almost fallen into the sandpit with shock at his father's announcement, before remembering what awful things it could hold. His father watched him with a wary expression as he windmilled his arms, trying to regain his balance.

'Do you want to hear the story or not?' Lucius asked at last.

'Yes!' Draco dropped gracelessly into the swing and clung gingerly onto the metal chains, resting his sharp chin on his hands and opening his eyes wide.

Ignoring his son's parody of frenetic interest, Lucius spoke, his eyes looking in the middle distance that revealed the landscape of a youth only he could recapture.

'I've always known that I didn't fancy girls,' he began. 'Even when I realised what that meant, it wasn't important, it didn't factor into things as a whole. My family - the Malfoys - were the numero uno ganglords of this borough, except for the Blacks of course. There were more pressing things to consider, like evading the Drug Squad and bashing in the kneecaps of rogue traders.

'Well, I was about twenty when I married your mother. I'd been out of school for almost four years - mind you, the years I was in school I spent most of my time dossing, or dealing. University, of course, was not an option, and anyway it was never something I wanted. My father was getting a bit arsey about me cluttering up the place. Old Octavius - you never knew him, of course. Gunned down by a couple of thugs in masks when you were only tiny. Anyway, at that stage he was onto wife number five, who wasn't a good deal older than I was, may I add. Usual story, she wasn't too keen on having me around, and Octo himself was feeling it was time for me to, as he put it, 'start making a contribution to the family.' His idea of that was by making an alliance with the Blacks, by marrying the eldest, prettiest daughter - obviously, your Mum, Narcissa.

'There was no possibility of, to use that naff phrase, 'coming out', not in that world, and especially not to my father. He couldn't stand 'those ruddy pillow-biters'. And seeing as I'd never actually fancied anyone of either sex, I didn't really mind being roped into union with your mother, who was something of a catch - to certain people, any Black would have been a wonderful catch.

'The problem started on our wedding night. Narcissa was only nineteen, but she was no virgin. Even if she had been, I reckon she's smart enough to have realised something was up. Nobody discerned anything, though, because you were conceived that night and everything in the garden seemed rosy.

'You were about six when I fell in love for the first time. I don't know if it was the fact that I cheated on her with a man, or the fact that he was her cousin, but the end result was that she left me. I think seven years in a loveless marriage to someone who didn't even fancy her gender made her awfully bitter for a while. She made me sign a nasty divorce settlement - I was happy to pay that, though, because I did love you, my son, and even Narcissa a little, by proxy, for giving you to me. She also let it be known that I was gay, and a combination of that revelation and possibly a tip-off from her to the police meant that I, along with another guy, got done for five years. Possession with intent to distribute, something like that.'

'Mum tipped you off? Because you were gay?' Draco's face was a picture.

'Don't look so shocked, son,' Lucius laughed. 'In a way, it was for you. She phrased it something along the lines of: 'My husband is gay, you people have ruined my life, the police are coming and if you don't leave me and my son alone for the rest of your miserable lives, I'll set _Bella_ on you'.'

'Bella?' Draco asked.

'Your aunt. Bloody terrifying woman, if I say so myself. Since my fall from grace and your mother's strategic withdrawal, also uncontested matriarch of the entire amalgamated Black-Malfoy empire.'

'Right.' Draco settled back comfortably in his swing. This was turning out to be quite a story. Yes, he'd known his father was a drug-dealer. However, he had assumed him to be of the small-businessman type that hung around schoolyards, perhaps from some old, well-moneyed family to account for the comfortable lifestyle he enjoyed with his mother, who boasted of never having held a job in her life. Not the former heir to a huge Mafia-like mob monarchy. He'd been vaguely aware of the notorious Black ring in the next neighbourhood - who wasn't? But he had thought the parity of names to be a coincidence, or perhaps that his mother was a far-shot relation. Suddenly, he sat up straight as a thought occurred to him.

'Does this mean,' he said, trying to stop his chin from trembling, 'that I have to become a drug-dealer? Because I've never done drugs - not even cigarettes.'

'No, of course not,' his father said reassuringly. 'Your mother bought you out of that a long time ago. You _could_ try to get in again, but it would be bloody dangerous.'

'Oh, good.' Draco deflated in relief.

'There is the little matter, though, of your inheritance.'

'My what?'

'Draco, Octo was a major man in what is a major business,' Lucius said patiently. 'He had connections with international drugs rings, the Mafia - ' (aha! Draco thought). 'In short, he amassed a bloody fortune. Those ruinous maintenance cheques your mother draws haven't even made a dint in it. And as of your eighteenth birthday, it's all yours.'

'Why? I mean, how? How - much?'

Lucius gave a knowing chuckle. 'You might call yourself Black, but you're still Malfoy to the core. 'How much?' was my father's favourite line.'

Draco was looking at him, dazed and confused.

'I digress. It's somewhere in the region of ten million pounds.'

'Ten,' Draco managed. 'Millions? And you're giving it to me _why_? Surely it's your inheritance first?'

'That's true.' Lucius shrugged. 'But I don't want it, and I don't need it either. I took a couple of thousand out, for myself, but I don't want much. My boyfriend has a fairly lucrative repair business going, and I drive the van.'

'Hang on.' A suspicion was beginning to form in Draco's mind. 'My mother's cousin? A _machine_ repair man, by any chance?'

'You've met Sirius?' Lucius said in delight.

'Is that his name?' Draco wrinkled his nose. 'You'll make a lovely couple, the two of you and your ridiculous cognomens.'

'What did you think of him?' Lucius asked, in the breathy tones of an infatuated schoolgirl. Draco had to keep from smirking.

'I only saw him for a sec. He was in school fixing the vending machine, flying about with that daft Lupin chap as his sidekick-in-crime. I thought he looked like a pansy.' Draco considered this for a moment. 'Clearly because he is one.'

'Lupin?' Lucius asked sharply. 'As in the old school friend, first love Lupin?'

'I don't know!' Draco exclaimed. 'I don't even take French. But all the circs seem to indicate that they knew each other, at least, and it's not exactly a common name, is it?'

'No,' Lucius forced out. Draco felt sorry for his father, who was wearing, all of sudden, an utterly woebegone expression.

'I wouldn't worry about it, Dad,' he advised. 'Everyone knows Lupin is mad for that greasy haired excuse for a Chemistry teacher, Snape-and-a-half.'

'Right,' said Lucius, but he sounded unconvinced. He laughed abruptly. 'Who'd have thought it - my own son, giving me advice about my love life.'

'Well, you've come to an expert,' Draco said complacently.

'So are you - do you know whether you are - '

'I'm fairly certain I'm straight, Dad,' Draco said seriously. 'I've never fancied a boy, unless that one time when I looked at Harry Potter's arse - but I think I should be forgiven that, seeing as I thought it was Hermione's.'

'Hermione - that's the girlfriend your mother was talking about, is it? Funny, I thought she had a flower name. Daisy, or something.'

'Hermione isn't my girlfriend,' Draco said instantly. 'My girlfriend's name is Pansy.'

His father forbore saying anything, although his trembling lip gave him away. Draco let the tension build for a moment, then turned away to snort with laughter.

'Yeah, I'll definitely have to break up with her now,' he said.

Hermione sat on Blaise's incongruously heart-covered bedspread and submitted to her ministrations with two scaldingly hot plates of metal.

'Do you think you could afford one of these?' Blaise asked her, scooping up a lock of hair with a comb and sweeping the straightener down it in a puff of steam.

'Oh, I already have one,' Hermione said vaguely.

'You what? And you never used it?'

'My aunt gave it to me, but I burnt my ear the first time I tried to use it. It didn't seem worth the hassle. Or the pain.'

Blaise shook her head in disbelief. 'I hope you're watching and learning now. I expect you to start using yours now, at least once a month anyway. If just to get value out of it.'

'I will,' Hermione promised. 'I just had no idea what to do with it. I do now.' She crossed her fingers where Blaise couldn't see them. It didn't actually look like rocket science, as long as she kept it away from her ears, that is.

Blaise stood back, surveying her minutely. Darting forward to flatten a stray lock, she announced. 'All done!'

Hermione stood up to look in Blaise's vanity mirror. Her own face stared back, surrounded by long, fluttery wisps of pale brown hair. Her head seemed to have halved in size.

'I'm amazed,' she admitted. 'It looks totally different.'

'Better?'

'Definitely!' Hermione laughed. 'It no longer looks as if I'm growing out dreadlocks, which can only be a good thing. Isn't it amazing - before, I never used any heat or chemicals on it, and it looked like as dry and frizzy as a woolly sock in a dryer. Now, after loading it with products and applying scandalous amounts of heat to it, it looks shiny and healthy. The world is so twisted.'

Blaise went to unplug the straightener with a satisfied grin. Hermione flopped down onto her desk chair, and propped up her chin on the chair back.

'You never told me who it is you like,' she said, her voice oddly distorted by the pressure under her throat.

'Oh, I was hoping you'd forget that,' Blaise said, wincing slightly.

'Why? Don't you trust me?' Hermione felt a little hurt. 'And after all the crap I told you about Black, too!'

'It's not that!' Blaise hastened to say. 'It's just that I feel a bit stupid over it.'

'You're talking to the girl, who just realised today that she fancies the winner of Prick of the Year Award, three hundred thousandth time running,' Hermione pointed out, rolling her eyes. 'I couldn't bat an eyelash if you announced your total devotion to - to - Alan Rickman.'

'He has a quite sexy voice,' Blaise said thoughtfully.

'Eww!' Hermione made a disgusted face. 'And stop trying to change the subject. I'm onto you, missus.'

'Fine!' Blaise snapped, then, in an almost-whisper: 'Harry Potter.'

Hermione frowned, trying to place him. 'Oh - the weedy guy with the specs and clothes that are too big for him?'

'Yes.' Blaise held her breath.

'Better him than his loser mate, anyway,' Hermione shrugged, and Blaise smiled happily. 'I suppose he's not too bad, if you go for the quiet, soulful types, which I don't. And he's quite good at History, too.'

'What higher praise can there be than that?' Blaise teased. 'Better than Black?'

'How would I know?' Hermione asked, with some asperity. 'Any work _he_ does is copied straight off of mine. On the basis of that, though, he's heading for an A, no doubt about it.'

Blaise made a disparaging noise at the back of her throat. 'You never liked him on the basis of his grades, you know that. More on his - um - icy good looks?'

'You mean the albino rabbit thing he has going?' Hermione said innocently. 'Yeah, stunning......'

'Come off it, I bet you think he's gorgeous,' Blaise baited.

'Fine, yes, whatever.'

'He is the stud of the school, you know.'

'And that is supposed to make me feel better how?'

''S not.'

'Cheers.'

They sat in silence for some moments, pleasurably contemplating their individual crushes. Finally, Hermione roused herself out of her near-stupor.

'It's getting late. I'd better go,' she said reluctantly.

'I'll get Mum to drive you,' Blaise offered. 'These streets aren't safe at night.'

'Or at any time,' Hermione added cynically.

'C'mon then - Mrs Black.'

'Piss off, Mrs Potter.'

~

Lupin sat, dull-eyed and tousle-haired, at the small faux-marble table in Sirius' flat.

'Won't your boyfriend mind that I'm here?' he asked dimly.

Sirius plonked a large blue mug full of tea in front of his friend, slopping it as he did so. Lupin began to mop it up distractedly with his unravelling sleeve.

'Lucius is out for the day with his _son_ ,' said Sirius grimly. 'I'll _make_ him not mind.'

'Son?' Lupin asked, trying to figure out, through the wooziness that was his brain, why this sounded so wrong, but failing to do so.

'Yes.' Sirius looked at him with a furrowed brow. 'Drink your tea.'

Automatically, Lupin lifted the mug and sipped, thinking back to that morning, when things had seemed so bright and hopeful.

Minerva McGonagall had approached him, urging him to meet with the prodigally-returned headmaster, whom Lupin had not seen since the first week of September term. Lupin, for his part, found Dumbledore to be drastically changed. No longer a tired, withered old man, he now seemed to crackle with vitality. And he had taken on board nearly all of Lupin's ideas, even some of the ones that he himself admitted were a little outrageous - a new gym and swimming pool complex, for example.

'We'll try and find a way to raise the money,' Dumbledore had said, in a low voice that didn't conceal his excitement. 'It could take years, but we'll get there in the end.'

And Minerva had offered him her place as vice-principal - 'In theory only, for now, for the formalities would take too long. But consider yourself deputy head in all but name.'

And he'd been amazed, and excited, and fizzing, and at the back of his mind he remembered Severus, and his fumbling, beautiful smiles and the way words seemed to spill out of his mouth without bothering to check with his brain first.......And the thought was always there, unvoiced but present, that _here_ , here was what he had been looking for, what he had thought he'd found in Sirius and a dozen others, but had been, all along, inside of this man - this man who was straight after all.

His anguished musings were cut short but the turning of a key in the latch. He registered the way Sirius' face lit up, like a lightbulb had been turned on inside of his head - there was only one person he could have been expecting who had that effect on him. Lupin felt pathetically jealous.

'You're home!' Sirius had half risen out of his chair, and was smiling his wide smile in typical Sirius enthusiasm. 'How did it go? Did you tell him?'

'Yes, I did.' The voice, despite its obvious inner-city accent, was nonetheless mellifluous and smooth, like warm honey. 'And he was amazingly fine about it.'

As he spoke, a tall, willowy man with a long, handsome face and straight blonde hair falling into his eyes was hanging up a long leather trench coat in the hall cupboard. As he turned to face them, Lupin let out a mirthless giggle.

'Black!' he exclaimed, for the resemblance was startling, uncanny. He looked at Sirius. 'And Black!' He dissolved into snorting giggles that were half-sobs, and gently, his head fell forward into his cradled arms.

'Who's this?' Lucius said distrustfully.

'Oh, just an old mate, Lupin,' Sirius said hurriedly. His explanation made Lucius narrow his eyes angrily.

'And what is _he_ doing here?' he asked in a dangerous hiss.

'Come into the kitchen,' Sirius said in an undertone, giving the shaking, head buried Lupin a scandalised look. Lucius shoved his way in first, and when Sirius, bemused and hurt, closed the door behind him, Lucius was pressed up against the cabinets, arms tightly folded so that he was almost hugging himself, his face shuttered. It reminded Sirius so evocatively of the first time they'd met - and kissed. Lucius had given him looks of hungry longing all during one of his mother's outrageously lavish dinner parties. When Sirius had finally confronted him, in a kitchen that was quite a bit larger than this one - although Sirius hadn't paid attention to the furnishings then, and wasn't now - he had adopted the self-same, defensive stance. Then, as now, Sirius had wanted to simply take him in a rough embrace and kiss away the troubled, scared expression. But now was now, and certainly more complicated, with the history of a relationship to defend and uphold.

'What's up, Lucius?' he asked, putting his head to one side.

'You have to ask that?' Lucius responded tightly. 'When your old lover is sitting at the kitchen table, and you've been doing god knows what while I've been breaking the news of our relationship to my son, like I promised you years ago I would?'

'And I knew you'd do that for me,' Sirius said, battling to keep his voice even. 'And I can understand if you're jealous. But Lupin's an old mate, and when the man he's fallen in love with accepts the offer of a date from a young, nubile _girl_ , I feel a bit obligated to him to cheer him up as best I can.'

'So you're not - you didn't - ' Lucius asked, unwilling to betray the extent of his lack of confidence.

'Lord knows, its a good thing I'm not a rabidly jealous person,' Sirius sighed. 'One of those is quite enough in a relationship.'

Lucius allowed himself a small smile, quivery and uncertain though it was.

'Come here, you daft loo,' Sirius said, shaking his head. 'After that, I'm not coming to you!'

Lucius crossed the small room with giant strides and buried himself in Sirius' arms, despite being a good deal taller than him.

'Sorry,' he muttered into Sirius' tee-shirted shoulder.

'Shut up and kiss me,' Sirius demanded, and Lucius happily obliged.

After several pleasurable moments, Sirius reluctantly broke away. 'Lupin,' he reminded him gently.

'Oh, yeah,' Lucius said, absent-mindedly rubbing his mouth with one hand. He always did it after they kissed, and after all this time Sirius found it endearing as opposed to irritating. 'Would this betrayer be a teacher by the name of Snape?'

'Yes, how did you know?' Sirius asked in amazement.

'My son goes to school there,' Lucius said.

'Your son...' Sirius mused. 'Tall, good looking fella with an eyebrow piercing? Lupin said he was a Black. Thought he had to be either one of Andy's or Cissy's - Bella, thank God, has never reproduced.'

'Well, yes. He mentioned he saw you there.'

'Now I come to think of it, he reminded me terribly of someone.'

'It couldn't have been me, could it?' Lucius asked dryly.

'Oops,' said Sirius, abashed. 'Yes.'

'Come on, lover.' Lucius threaded his arm through Sirius'. 'If you and I - together with the help of my son, the self-proclaimed 'expert in these things', can't get them together, nobody can.'

'You're being very helpful all of a sudden,' Sirius accused.

'But of course. I have an ulterior motive.' He dropped a kiss on Sirius' mouth as they opened the door together. 'I want him to be blissfully, utterly happy, so that he will never think of looking in your direction ever again.'

'Even if he did,' Sirius assured him. 'I wouldn't look back. Well, not for long, anyway. Hey, ow, what was that for?'

~

Lucius had taken his son for large, fat-dripping chips at a greasy caf before seeing him home. Most of the time was spent reassuring Draco that first of all, it was true, on February eighteenth he would become a millionaire several times over, and no, there was no catch and Lucius was perfectly willing to sign it all to him. Lucius tactfully didn't mention Sirius' initial reaction to his lover's plan to hand over the entire fortune to his son, which had been one of nasty shock and disbelief. Sirius had eventually come round, especially when he realised that it was Lucius' way of severing all ties to the past, but Lucius was pretty certain that his son's suspicious mind wouldn't see it that way.

They parted at the front gate of Narcissa's luxurious semi-d, Lucius still too wary of his ex-wife to venture inside, at least not yet. Draco made him promise that he would, though, someday soon.

By the time Draco turned his key in the lock, Lucius had disappeared into the lengthening shadows.

'Mum, I'm home,' he called.

There was silence for a moment, then Narcissa stormed into the hall, tinted blonde hair flying. Draco quailed at the look on her face.

'And just _where_ do you think you've been all day?' she shrieked. 'I got a call at eleven o'clock from the school, saying you were missing and no one knew if you were sick, or dead, and if you've been doing drugs - ' she broke off suddenly and burst into loud, racketing sobs.

Draco stared at her in amazement and a little guilt. His surprise was not occasioned by her overkill reaction - Narcissa had always been overly given to dramatics, something he'd inherited it from her - but at the school's concern.

'Did you say the _school_ rang you?' he asked, frowning. 'Jesus, and here I was thinking they didn't even know my name.'

A small, dry cough announced the presence of another person in the room. Draco whirled around to find Binns, the history teacher, of all people, standing behind his mother and clearly having followed her out of the kitchen.

'In that you are, in fact, correct,' he said mildly in his paper-rustling voice. 'We don't know your given name, that is. But D. Black has a phone number in our files.'

'What?' Draco stared at him, mouth hanging open. 'Why are you here - in my _house_? With my _mother_? Oh, God, my poor innocent mind!'

'Oh, get out of the gutter, Draco,' his mother snapped, ceasing the flow of water from her eyes as quickly as she'd started it.

Draco gasped, even more affronted. 'You - you used my _name_! In front of someone from _school_! Omigod, mother, what are you trying to do, ruin my _life_?'

'Of course,' Narcissa said, sneering. 'Mother's prerogative.'

'As a matter of fact, she already told me your name,' Binns interjected.

'Oh, she has, has she?' Draco snarled. 'Been having a nice cosy little _chat_ with her, have you? Trying to weasel your way in because she's divorced and lonely!'

'Draco!' his mother exclaimed, in her I'm-taking-control voice, a little marred by the snicker she could not suppress at his words. 'That's quite enough. I want you to come into the kitchen, sit down and we'll sort this out. And I am _not_ lonely!' she added in a hiss as Binns ambled away.

'Snh.' Draco felt he could have said a lot more, but if she'd revealed his real name to Binns just for skiving _, Lord_ knows what she'd do if he refused to obey her now and kept making naughty allusions about her love life (or lack thereof).

Draco slumped into a chair with bad grace and stuffed a chocolate biscuit into his mouth. Staring at Binns defiantly, he began chewing loudly, spewing crumbs everywhere. Binns just raised a hairy eyebrow and gave him an enigmatic half-smile, which only served to infuriate him further. Where was he going without a bell on his bike, making that awful rictus at Draco?

'What happened, Draco, is that you were missing from your history class,' his mother was saying in reasonable tones, while flitting around making tea and generally acting the perfect housewife (the perfect mother cover had been blown, obviously, by her son's delinquent activities). 'Joe - I mean Mr Binns - informed the headmaster, and also told him that he'd never known you to miss a day of school.'

'That's not true,' Draco objected, pouting like a spoiled baby. The ring of crumbs surrounding his mouth only enhanced the effect. Binns tightened his lips to keep from smiling again. 'I missed one day last year, for the dentist.'

'Exactly,' said Binns, taking his cue. 'And you brought a note that time. So for you to miss a day, without your mother ringing up, as she usually does, to say that you were ill or something, was out of character and was, despite what you may think, a cause for concern. Your record in that sense is impeccable.'

'It is?' Draco curled his lip in disgust. 'God, I'll have to do something about that. Knowledge like that could utterly _destroy_ my rep.'

'Draco!'

'So I rang your mother to confirm,' Binns continued, unperturbed. 'And she thought you were in school.'

'Fair enough,' Draco said. 'And you ended up here how exactly? A frantic fear for my safety drove you on, perhaps?'

'Your mother's frantic fear for your safety, actually,' Binns said, his face blank.

'I was with Dad,' Draco sighed. 'He was at the kitchen table when I came down for breakfast, and he sort of convinced me to skip school to talk with him.'

'Well, he does have a key,' Narcissa conceded. 'Well, I'd like to say I'm relieved, but this is Lucius, after all. What did he want to speak with you about?'

'Oh, this and that,' Draco said carelessly, while inside he was revelling. Now was his chance to break Binns' damnably calm facade. 'He wanted to recount his childhood for me, as the son of the head of this huge drugs ring. Then he told me a few other little things, like, he's gay, and going out with Sirius, you know Binns, the guy who repaired the vending machine?' Binns raised his eyebrows again, but said nothing. Frustrated, Draco added, in a drawl, 'He also happens to be Mum's cousin. Still, nothing like keeping it in the family, hey?'

'That is truly fascinating,' Binns said, without a hint of sarcasm. Draco growled at him and turned to look at his mother.

'So he didn't try to get you to - take anything, then? Drugs?' she said fearfully.

'Not at all. I got the impression that he's turned his back on all that, for _lurve,_ ' Draco scoffed. After all, to the very young the idea of such very old people doing something as interesting as falling in love is totally farcical. 'But he did insist I take the family fortune on my eighteenth, which is pretty bloody decent, whaddyasay?'

'Don't swear, Draco,' his mother frowned.

'I really think you didn't show up too well in the whole thing, though,' Draco added, reaching for another biscuit.

'Oh, I know,' Narcissa sighed guiltily. 'I really shouldn't have blabbed the secret to everyone, but I was just so _hurt_ \- '

'Not _that_.' Draco cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hands, sending chocolate-coated crumbs flying in every direction. 'It was scandalous that you let him get away with naming me _Draco_ , even if he _is_ gay!'

 


	3. A Walk On The Wild Side

_In shallow shoals, English soles do it,_

_Goldfish in the privacy of bowls, do it._

_Let's do it,_

_Let's fall in love._

(Cole Porter)

It was a strange thing, Hermione mused, that suddenly realising you fancied someone did not automatically render them perfect. Clearly it was an expectation that went hand in hand with nerdy, wishful thinking of flawless first loves, walks on sunset washed beaches, lots of red satin hearts and the impossibility of disagreement. Hermione had always thought herself immune to such queasy charms, as indeed she was; of expectations founded on nothing she was not.

Black appeared at school next day, as surly and moody as she'd ever seen him. He was not late for any class, which was not a good sign; as a rule, he loved making an impression, and a standard way to achieve this aim was waltzing into a room five minutes after the bell had rung. He offered Hermione no explanation for his absence and she found herself suddenly too shy to ask.

That was another fact of her newly awakened feelings towards him: she hesitated to even think what previously she would have had no qualms about contemptuously expressing, no matter what he thought about it.

Consequently, they spent the day in an uncomfortable silence; Hermione perched on the edge of her seat, not daring to even glance in his direction, while Black determinedly lounged back on his chair, staring fixedly out of the window. It was a situation every teacher found impossibly amusing, and caused much interest in the staffroom.

Severus was sure that something of a sexual nature had transpired between them, which one or both were now regretting. Lupin took a more romantic view, stating that one of them had evidently declared their feelings, and the other was too abashed to reciprocate. Severus wondered aloud which was which, and Lupin snapped that it hardly made a difference, he was merely theorising about students' love lives like the sad bastard that he was. This said, he stormed out, snarling like a wolf, to Severus' bafflement and not a little hurt.

Binns got it dryly spot on by remarking that all that had probably happened was that Hermione had realised she fancied Black and couldn't handle it. Marie pooh-poohed that idea, preferring her own: they'd both discovered they had the same father. Dumbledore, when asked for a comment, merely crinkled his eyes to express his enjoyment at the blossoming of love between two young people.

Minerva went about with an odd little smile on her face.

Sybil insisted she'd known it all along, and that as an Aries and an Aquarian they were supremely compatible.

And the week rolled on, and it was the weekend.

~

Blaise was standing at her dressing table mirror, applying lipstick with all the fierceness usually reserved for confronting enemy troops. Hermione stood by, uncomfortably tugging at the hem of her shirt.

'I don't think this is such a good idea,' she began.

Blaise turned to face her, lipstick held at the ready like a loaded gun. 'Don't give me that,' she said. 'You told me earlier that you could spare half-a-day's study. So you can well afford to come out with us tonight.'

'Yes, but - '

'Look, Lavender and the twins aren't exactly AA Gill, but we're going to a bar. You can't expect a lot in the sparkling conversation stakes.'

'But what's the point?'

'Oh, let me think,' Blaise pretended to consider, and inadvertently striped her cheek with Strawberry Splash. 'Shit! Well - to enjoy ourselves, and maybe get lucky.'

'But I thought you fancied Harry!'

Blaise turned back to the mirror, grinning. 'Who said I wasn't going to get lucky with him?'

Hermione turned away to regard herself uncertainly in Blaise's full-length wardrobe mirror. Short skirts and strappy sandals and flimsy silk shirts were all very well - for someone else.

'You look fine,' Blaise said firmly.

'You can see my bellybutton!'

'Yes. That's a crime you know.' Blaise peered closer. 'Hey, I never knew you had it pierced!'

'Neither do my parents, so they most definitely cannot see me dressed like this. This shirt is barely decent anyway.'

'That shirt is totally cool. And it cost me fifty pounds, so don't you dare insult it.'

'I could pay you five pence for every time. By the end of the night you'd make up fifty.'

'Cheeky! What is that body bar?'

'Oh - its a little hand holding a jewel. I didn't have much time to choose, my mother can do the groceries in an hour flat.'

'Its wicked. I'm too scared to get mine done.'

'I was going to do my nose, but that's too conspicuous.'

'So you got pierced just to cover it up all the time.'

'You say that like it's a bad thing.'

Blaise laughed in amazement and slung her arm around Hermione's shoulders. 'You never fail to surprise me. C'mon, lets go.'

~

'I knew I shouldn't've worn these shoes,' Hermione grumbled. 'My feet are killing me.'

'Nearly there, you whiner,' Blaise jollied her along.

They came to a halt outside a pub decorated with peeling green paint. 'The Leaky Cauldron' was picked out in weatherworn gilt letters above the door.

'Jeez, what kind of a dive is this?' Hermione sneered.

Blaise shook her head knowingly.

~

Draco almost didn't go out on Friday night. He kept having these sudden urges to wallow, wear a frilly nightdress and demand a continuous supply of chocolate biscuits. He was finally shoved out of the door by an exasperated Narcissa, who declared that she'd had enough of his moaning and that she'd never seen anyone react so asininely to the news that they were to inherit a fortune. Thus it was that Draco found himself unceremoniously turfed into the street with only a fiver in his pocket, wearing the clothes he was standing up in. These turned out to be incredibly grubby jeans, his oldest pair of Nikes and a voluminous black T-shirt emblazoned with a skull spitting out a snake.

With a sigh, Draco ambled off down the road to Greg's house.

~

Selina had chosen the film they were seeing, the restaurant they went to, the number of the taxi that transported them from A to B, and the most expensive items on the menu and wine list.

After all this effort on her part, it was no wonder Sev felt obliged to pay. For everything.

Sev spent most of the film wondering what the significance of Remus' earlier outburst was. When Selina asked him how he liked the movie, all he could say was that the leading man reminded him awfully of Remus.

Selina gave him an odd look at that, but was far more interested in dissecting the film scene by scene, giving her scathing opinion on each, followed by a total denunciation of the acting skills of the Oscar-winning actress who'd starred in it.

Sev mentally shook himself. Here he was, in close proximity to a beautiful, seductive young woman who had sought him out, and all he could think about was his co-worker's angsty mood. He decided he needed to buck up fast.

Selina talked and talked. And talked some more. By the end of the meal, which had put Sev out of pocket over two hundred pounds (not including wine, which Sev found himself imbibing more and more of as the night wore on), Sev glassily reflected that he should suggest she write to the Guinness Book of Records for a nomination: Most Words With Least Interest Quotient spoken per minute.

He felt mildly pissed off, and not just because of the 15 per cent proof Chablis he'd been snorkelling like it was oasis water. Why was it that every woman he had ever dated was so - well, so self-obsessed? Given, Selina had every reason to be, with a figure to rival Britney Spears' and a face to match. However, it would have been nice if these facts had not made her think that she could heedlessly neglect the cultivation of her mind to match her smooth skin and shiny hair.

He nearly fell asleep in the taxi on the way to Selina's flat; he spotted the young taxi driver giving him a knowing look in the rear view mirror. He was roused out of a near stupor by Selina's chirpy announcement to the effect that they'd arrived.

Warning the taxi driver to keep the meter running, which he did with great alacrity, Sev stumbled out after Selina, head bobbing in time to her flying high heels as he fought to keep his eyes open. On top of everything else, the cool night air was making all those bucketfuls of wine repeat severely upon him.

Selina was standing at her door, waiting impatiently for him, by the time he caught up. The wine, going to his head in a sudden whoosh, had caused him to take the scenic route up the short, crazy-paved path, encountering a lot of interesting shrubbery on the way.

Selina was framed to best advantage in the half-shadow of the nearby street light, and knew it. The light edged her dark hair like a corona as she tilted her head up towards his.

Knowing what was expected of him, and wishing he didn't feel so bloody drunk and bored, Sev perfunctorily dropped his mouth on hers. Immediately she responded, thrusting her tongue between his lips with an enthusiasm Sev found impossible to match. In fact, he found himself thinking it was rather akin to sucking one of the rubber bungs in his lab...then he was hard pressed not to laugh, which would have been unforgivable.

'Do you want to come up?' she asked breathily, breaking off at last.

'Uh...no, I'm really bushed,' Sev stammered, hoping he came across as intimidated as opposed to completely disinterested. Even if Selina was a boring twat, he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

'Oh.' Selina frowned - only for a second. (Sev remembered her saying that she avoided frowning whenever possible, to reduce the possibility of wrinkles. She rarely smiled, for the same reason.) 'Okay then. I'll see you Monday?'

'Sure,' Sev said in relief, just preventing himself from dashing off down the path as fast as his legs would take him. In this he was aided by the excessive amounts of alcohol he'd consumed, which were definite in their wishes to make him move very, very slowly.

He sank into the passenger's seat of the taxi with unconcealed relief. The taxi driver - who had rather a cute grin, Sev noticed woozily - shook his head at him.

'Not go so well then?' he asked condescendingly. 'Not your type, is she?' He dragged his eyes over Sev's outstretched body - from the long, leather-clad legs, the washboard stomach draped with a midnight blue shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal tiny whisps of dark chest hair, to the lolling, blue-black head - with undisguised interest. Sev, almost oblivious - but not quite - smiled back, revealing his crooked white teeth, while hanks of hair flopped over his forehead as the little car zipped dangerously around corners and other vehicles.

'Not my gender, actually,' Sev admitted in a moment of foolish, alcohol-induced honesty.

'Really?' The driver drawled out the word, holding Sev's gaze with bright blue, long-lashed eyes, while Sev gripped the edges of his seat and feared for his life.

They sped through a light that was on the rosy side of green, and Sev couldn't help breathing out an audible sigh of admiration mixed with terror.

'I like living dangerously,' the driver laughed, eyes now fixed on the road. His taut posture gave Sev full time to appraise himself of the virile attractiveness of the man's smooth, shaven cranium and the sexy green snake tattoo that adorned one muscular forearm.

'How about you?'

~

Draco was almost asphyxiated by the overpowering smell of Hugo Boss. It hit him like a ten-tonne mallet as he opened the door of Greg's bedroom. By the time he'd entered the room fully, it had taken on a practically independent existence.

Greg was hunched over his mirror, flicking prissily at his spiked hair, which was wet-look-gelled to within an inch of its life. Vinnie was sprawled across Greg's bed on his stomach, gripping the pads of Greg's PS2 with an enthusiasm he only ever showed to one other thing, tuna sandwiches.

'G, V, thanks for the heart-stoppingly enthusiastic welcome, as always,' Draco drawled, waving a hand frantically in front of his nose and trying not to breathe.

''S you, then,' Greg pointed out needlessly. 'What do you think?'

He whirled around, aping a simpering mince with alarming authenticity. He was dressed in a very loud lime green silk shirt and white jeans that were so tightly fitted the seams appeared bolted to his legs. A heavy gold chain with a pendant in the shape of a boxing glove completed the picture of a complete and utter prat.

'Very nice,' Draco said dutifully. After all, he wasn't supposed to find it attractive. He just doubted that anyone would. He turned his eyes to Vinnie, who was dressed in his best, matching, navy and red Adidas tracksuit.

'Where are we off to?'

'The Leaky Cauldron. You coming?'

'Why not? Mum said if she saw me back before half ten, she'd throw devilled eggs at me. So I have to do something to fill the time. Have you a coat I can borrow, though?'

'Wardrobe's over there,' Greg said, turning back to his mirror. Unbeknownst to him, Draco watched as he nodded approvingly at himself, gave himself the thumbs up and mouthed, 'Baby, you _steamin'_.'

Draco rolled his eyes and riffled Greg's vast array of - for the majority, leather - jackets. On impulse, he peeked at himself over Greg's large round head. He looked - not to put too fine a point on it - bloody awful. So there was not much he could do that would actually make him look _worse_.

Grinning wickedly, he reached into Greg's wardrobe once more.

~

Hermione was pleasantly surprised to discover that the interior of the Leaky Cauldron in no way matched its condemned-building facade. On the contrary, it was tastefully decorated in muted blues and purples, with beaded silk lampshades that gave the impression of being in a high-class harem. All the seat cushions were upholstered in the same violet silk.

'That must be a devil to clean,' she said, approvingly, for things often should be measured by the amount of effort that goes into them.

Blaise rolled her eyes, but refrained from comment. Hermione's positive reaction was a good sign, after all.

They made their way to the bar, palely lit with bright fluorescent bars beneath the glass counter. Rows of exotic and luridly-coloured drinks lined the blue-tinted glass shelves behind it.

'Um, Blaise,' Hermione muttered, as a thought occurred to her, 'We're under age. How are we going to get served?'

'No worries,' Blaise smiled. 'The police never bother this place, I know for a fact. Not sure why. 'S like magic, or something. Plus, my dad is friends with the owner.'

'The guy serving, is it?' Hermione nodded her head towards the wizened, wrinkled old man behind the counter, who had a face like a pickled apple.

'Oh, no, that's just Tom,' Blaise laughed.

'Did someone say my name?' Tom called to them.

'Yes - two Fat Frogs, please,' Blaise said, dragging herself unceremoniously onto a barstool. Hermione hopped onto the one next to it.

'What's in Fat Frogs?' she asked suspiciously.

'Apples,' Blaise said, too quickly, then amended, 'Well - mostly apples.'

Within seconds, two bright green pint glasses were set before them. Blaise took a long draught of hers before turning to check the door. Hermione prodded the surface of hers with a finger. It bent slightly before her nail broke the surface. Wincing, Hermione gingerly pushed it away.

'Oh, look!' Blaise said, waving at the door, where three figures, dressed in enough clothing to decently dress one small child, and enough glitter to supply Hallmark's for a decade, were tripping in on three-inch heels.

'It's Lavender and the twins,' she added, with every appearance of happiness.

|~

Lupin was most thoroughly pissed off. He had agreed to have dinner with Lucius and Sirius, and was most severely regretting it. Watching them eat spaghetti - off the same plate - was enough to make one want to torture and slowly kill Italians everywhere. Then, they brought out a video. _Crossroads_. Lupin sat, arms crossed, in mounting rage at life in general and the film's utter dreadfulness in particular. Lucius and Sirius were spared the agony, engrossed as they were in a marathon lip-lock.

By the time credits rolled, Lupin was in a mood to tear the heads off of small fluffy kittens. The couple on the couch were writhing with increased athleticism. With nary a glance backwards, Lupin strode out.

He ambled along the dark street, the fire of his frustration dampening as it came into contact with the biting cold outside. He shoved his hands deeper into his brown corduroy pockets, wishing he had thought to wear gloves. It was barely eight o'clock. What was he going to do all night? He couldn't bear the thought of seeking out a bar, alone, and drowning his sorrows. It had never been his style.

With the vague idea of seeking out a Blockbusters and hiring out something that would scourge the memory of _Crossroads_ from his mind, he wandered down a darkened alley and found himself almost lost. A sudden shaft of moonlight saved him, shining down onto a wonky street sign, nailed into the wall, which pronounced the place to be Knockturn Alley. Oh, so that meant he just needed to take a left, and a left, and he'd be back on....

Catching sight of himself in a shop front gave him pause. He stood for a long while, contemplating his reflection. A tall, lanky man looked back at him, dressed in a threadbare brown and white wool jumper, worn brown corduroy trousers and scuffed decks. His wristbones jutted out from the tattered ends of his sleeves, glowing oddly in the moonlight. His face was lit by the same luminescence; his long hair almost obscured one side of it.

Eventually, he jerked free of his musings, taking in as he did so the name, picked out in silver Gothic script, of the shop he'd been using as a mirror. It was the Shrieking Shack. A smaller line of lettering added: 'Hair and Body Emporium.'

Lupin squinted up at the sky, pushing his hair free of his face as he did so.

Full moon. Time for a change.....

~

Seamus had spent most of the day calming Dean's highly irrational fears about his first date with Ginny Weasley. He had finally desisted after he suggested (being almost at his wits' end) that Dean ask Ginny to get some dope from Ron for him, to calm him down. Dean had nearly decked him, and Seamus had retreated in high dudgeon.

Dean had approached him after the final bell, a hang dog conciliatory look on his face, and three bars of chocolate in his hand. Seamus allowed himself to be mollified, and was immediately roped in to help Dean choose his outfit.

So it was that Seamus was standing in front of Dean's wardrobe, hand on hips, biting his lip in consideration, while Dean watched with his eyes partially lidded, lounging half-off, half-on his bed.

'I don't care,' he moaned. 'Pick anything that looks okay. You're the gay one, you should know about clothes.'

'That is an unjust and unfounded stereotype which I fundamentally resent,' Seamus announced. 'However, superficially - well, I know more about threads than you, I have to admit.'

'I was going to wear this,' Dean said, flipping over to rummage under his bed, while Seamus looked out of the window to avoid the tempting image before him. Dean emerged triumphantly, waving aloft a significantly crumpled black silk shirt.

Seamus regarded him balefully.

'What?'

'A silk shirt. A _black_ silk shirt.'

'Oh, so it is. I hadn't noticed.'

Seamus ignored him. 'You cannot wear that. I don't care about stereotypes, nothing shouts 'gay!' louder than black silk shirts.' He paused for a moment to ponder. 'Unless it's purple silk shirts,' he added thoughtfully. 'And as your friend - I think I'll just appropriate this.'

'You're stealing my shirt.' Dean raised his eyebrows at Seamus.

'You make it sound so dirty. I'm saving you from social embarrassment, that's what I'm doing.'

'So choose something! And hurry, I'm picking her up in an hour.'

'Do not rush my genius.' At Dean's thunderous expression, Seamus hurriedly turned back to the wardrobe. He bit his lip again, and slowly pulled out some items.

'Here.... here.....and here.'

Dean leaned over to inspect the items that had been thrown on his bed. A sharply ironed white shirt with faint blue check, black trousers and a long caramel coloured coat. Aside from the trousers, he'd never worn any of it, nor even bought it - his mother had, out of hope more than expectation that he would wear them.

Something of his thoughts must have spilled onto his face, for Seamus glared at him menacingly. 'Just remember,' he said through gritted teeth, 'You're going on a date, not to a freaking football match.'

Seamus was idly flicking through the channels on Dean's family's television when Dean finally appeared. Usually nothing could capture his attention like the wonder of Sky, which his parents adamantly refused to have installed, but tonight he felt restless and distracted. He told himself it had nothing at all to do with Dean's impending date with a member of the opposite sex, and almost believed it.

Seamus caught his breath when Dean mooched in, looking lachrymose and frowning, and tugging at the sleeves of the coat. With his lean, catlike frame, Dean looked good even in the nondescript tracksuits he insisted on slobbing around in. But there was no denying he scrubbed up awfully well. Seamus frantically thought about Jordan to stop himself getting turned on by the sight of his friend in a proper shirt and trousers that accentuated rather than hid his muscular thighs, light brown hair restlessly shoved straight back.

'Do I look okay?' Dean demanded. 'Because I feel like a twerp.'

'You'll do,' Seamus said, in a strangulated voice. 'Got the tickets?'

'Yep.' It had been with difficulty that Seamus had persuaded Dean that Ginny would prefer ice-skating to mud wrestling, but he'd managed it in the end.

'Flowers?'

'Yep.'

'Right so, you're ready and raring to go.'

'What are you doing tonight then?' They usually hung out together.

Seamus shrugged. 'Might go down to the Leaky Cauldron. Or watch my Lord of the Rings video again.'

' _My_ Lord of the Rings video.'

'Same difference.'

'Okay.'

'Okay. Good luck.'

And Dean was gone.

~

Hermione kept having to remind herself who she was, feeling that if the Fat Frog - which, over time, had become more appetising - did not make her forget, Lavender's company surely would.

Blaise was moping slightly because Harry wasn't there, but she was more than amply distracted by setting up Lavender with a random blonde bloke called Zach. His mates, too, seemed very solicitous to Hermione and her - she could call them friends, she supposed. It was occasion for much giggling and hair flipping, and Hermione found herself wandering, a little foggily, why Lavender just couldn't go up and say she fancied him, why she had to indulge in all this frippery and deception first?

Her subconscious reminded her that she was a fine one to talk, having not spoken a word to her own crush in over three days.

She promptly treated her subconscious to another Fat Frog.

As she was lowered the glass subsequent of draining it of its last luminous dregs, she spotted Black's blonde head over the shorter, stockier figures of Greg and Vinnie. She jerked in shock and got an irritated poke in the side from Pav, on whose hand, she realised, she had been trying to slam her glass. Blaise shot her a knowing look, but refrained from commenting, for which Hermione was eternally grateful.

As the three boys fanned out, heading for the opposite end of the bar, Hermione got a proper look at Black for the first time, and nearly snorted out what remained of her drink. What was he _wearing_...

~

Draco calmly took a seat next to his two best mates, who were already eyeing up the talent. He quickly ordered three Heinekens, making Greg pay - his scoring time (with, admittedly, girls who were only good looking when seen through beer goggles) was so lightning fast that if Draco didn't get a drink now, he'd be left dry for the night. A fiver wouldn't get him far in the Leaky Cauldron. He tugged up the collar of Greg's enormous sheepskin coat, briefly wondering if donning it had been the wisest sartorial strategy. He quickly dismissed his misgivings with naturally careless confidence.

He took a drag from his bottle and scanned the room. Greg was winking at a group of girls, already well on the way to becoming well oiled, and ready to share the bounty with Vinnie, as he always did. Draco's eye alighted on another gaggle of females, considerably better dressed and looking than Greg's posse of choice. Then his eyes widened in shock.

It was Hermione.

But.... Hermione in a short...really short skirt, an almost see-through top, and since when did _she_ have endless, long, slim legs? Draco felt almost disgruntled by the realisation that Hermione was - well, generally fanciable. In a physical, not mental sense. And getting rather seriously crisised by a group of Duncan Blue lookalikes. Draco's eyes narrowed with loathing. Who were they to chat up his bookworm, huh?

He turned back towards the bar in a dark cloud. He was all too well aware, now, of his dirty jeans, scruffy t-shirt, ridiculous coat and rat-tail hair, which had all clumped together after its rapid shampooing earlier that evening. He wasn't ashamed of it, but was uncomfortably certain that it couldn't match up to the smooth, gelled, primped fanboys currently leeching around Hermione like a pack of midges.

'Hey, Greg, lend me fifty, I'll pay you back tomorrow.'

Draco was going to get quite seriously drunk.

|~

Draco came to himself, lying in a huddled heap, and freezing cold. As his consciousness slowly returned, he abruptly wished it hadn't, as he hurt _everywhere._

He was lying prone on his own front doorstep, and had evidently spent the night there.

Trying to ignore the hangover that even now was thrumming relentlessly at his temples, he made a careful body check to ensure that none of his appendages had withered off from frostbite. None had, but the vast, horrendous sheepskin jacket sported a light dusting of frost.

Draco decided he rather liked the coat, and wasn't going to return it.

Just as he was spurring himself to get up and whisper at his mother to bloody well open the door - hollering, of course, was out of the question, as such an act would surely split his head open - he heard voices behind the tinted glass panes of the door.

'I'm sure he stayed over at Greg's or Vinnie's. We're safe.'

Those, surely, were his mother's distinctive cut-class accents.

After a few seconds, he was fairly certain of it. The words, however, remained incomprehensible.

The door abruptly opened, and Draco, who had been leaning against it, rolled inwards slightly.

To look up at the frankly unpleasant sight of the wrong end of someone's nostrils.

'Good morning, Draco,' Binns said pleasantly.

~

Draco was not the only one waking up to the payment of a night's heavy drinking. Hermione was also. However, Draco had on his side the experience of having done so before, and the comforting knowledge that he'd known what he was letting himself in for.

Hermione, on the other hand, did not.

She reared up from the tangle of blankets on Blaise's floor, which had constituted her bed for the night, and barely made it to the bathroom before she started vomiting rainbows.

A quarter of an hour later, Blaise, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, leaned against the bathroom doorjamb, yawning widely.

Hermione was sitting huddled on the coarse reed mat by the bath, clutching her ankles convulsively. She turned her face to look at Blaise with a haunted expression.

'And you tell me people do this _regularly_?' she muttered hoarsely. 'For - _fun_?'

Blaise, who could hold her drink far better and had drunk considerably less anyway, smiled unsympathetically. 'Yes, of course. What could be more enjoyable than spending a fortune on fermented wine skins that you're only going to chuck up the next morning?'

Hermione appeared to consider this deeply.

'Almost anything else?' she said at last.

~

Seamus stayed in bed until at least midday every Saturday morning. He felt it would be a crime against sanity to rise any earlier.

Being woken at nine am by Dean bouncing enthusiastically on his bed, therefore, was not favourite.

And he had to get Dean to stop bouncing _soon_ , or he wouldn't be responsible for the results of his actions.

'Dean, what the feck are you doing in my bedroom at this unholy hour of the morning?' he growled unwelcomingly.

'I just got back!' Dean said cheerfully.

'From your date? What the hell is the time?'

'Oh,' Dean checked his watch. 'Ten past nine.'

'Oh.' Seamus leaned back weakly on his pillows. 'What did I do in my past life to deserve this cruelty?'

'Seamus, you're a Catholic. You can't believe in reincarnation.'

'At nine in the morning I'll believe what I bloody well like.'

'You're a wanker. You have to get up twice as early for school.'

'That's different. _This_ is a _Saturday_.'

'Don't you want to hear about my date?'

'Why would I need to? I nearly planned the whole thing.'

'God, but you're grumpy in the morning.' Dean was indomitably perky. 'Perhaps I should come back at a more amenable time?'

'Good thinking, ninety-nine,' Seamus muttered into his pillow.

'Shove up then.' Dean kicked off his shoes and swung his legs up onto the bed. 'And throw me some of that duvet, you nasty blanket-hogger.'

'Wh - What are you doing?' Seamus scooted to the far end of his bed in alarm.

'Getting some well-deserved kip, obviously.'

'In my bed?'

Dean had used Seamus' sudden vacation to gain himself a good half of the bed. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it after his shoes, then patted the blankets around himself into a more comfortable position. A small burst of Lynx Africa drifted in Seamus direction, making his throat tighten uncomfortably. He carefully resettled himself, trying to reduce himself into the smallest size possible.

Dean's eyelashes were already fluttering.

'Bet you the Fellowship of the Ring didn't make such a fuss 'bout sleeping in the same place,' he murmured, half way to sleep.

Seamus looked down at his friend's relaxed features, mouth curving into a half smile, and thought that on that matter, it was as well to be silent.

~

Sev opened his eyes, then immediately wished he hadn't.

'Oh, shit,' he said, with deep and heartfelt meaning.

He felt - odd. And sore in the strangest places. Not painful but - chafed. Oh God. His cheeks flushed darkly as the memories tripped over each other to be first to enter his waking mind.

Live dangerously. Yes, that was certainly true. He wasn't even sure if they had used condoms. Oh, please, god (or gods or godettes, or any supernatural force available really), let them have used condoms.

He tentatively raised himself up on his elbows and looked around himself. His alcohol-hazed brain hadn't been in gear for taking in details last night, even if there hadn't been other - distractions.

The room was small, and bare. The large iron bed on which he was currently lying was the only significant furniture of the room. That, and a pennant hanging on one wall. Squinting closer, he realised it was from Eton.

Screwing his courage to the sticking place, he refused to sink into procrastinating pondering over the pennant's origin, and looked down at the man sleeping beside him.

To his shame, Sev couldn't remember his name. Or even if they had exchanged those. Bodily fluids: check. Sev squirmed slightly. _Definitely_ check. Names: not so certain.

The man's chest was rising and falling gently in sleep; a well-built chest, wide shoulders tapering to narrow, snake-like hips. His shaven head gleamed gently in the early morning sun, creeping in through thin drapes. His arms were thrust protectively around himself, the long serpent tattoo half-hidden. He looked even younger than Sev had first thought; he couldn't be thirty, even. How incongruous, then, that he, not Sev, was the seducer in all this.

Sev leaned closer, close enough to feel the man's warm breath on his neck. Idly, with one finger, Sev traced the matching skull tattoo on the man's shoulder, not thinking, not thinking at all.

The man's eyes fluttered open, long spidery lashes dancing.

'Still here, are you?' He sounded vaguely surprised, but not unpleased.

In answer, Sev pushed forward the tiniest bit, and kissed him.

Because he wanted to know what it felt like when he was sober. Because he wanted to see if this strange, consuming desire could compete with sobriety. Because, dammit, he wanted to see if it really was as good as he remembered.

It really was.

~

Minnie McGonagall woke up on Saturday morning, after a very disturbing dream, determined to do something with her life.

In the dream, she had been very old, and dying. An angel - Azreel, the angel of death - had come to take her to heaven, and on their way he had asked her what she had done with her life.

Nothing.

Minnie looked at herself in the mirror. It was her birthday today; she was forty-four years old.

She didn't look it; she could have shaved five years off her true age, no problem. Spending over two decades of money on herself - money that most of her contemporaries were throwing desperately at children, mortgages, college funds - she had spent on herself. She had given a lot to charity, true; but living in a small basement flat, inherited from her grandmother, with her only dependant a cat who liked to be known as Crookshanks, had left her with quite a lot of cash on her hands.

Expensive Lancôme moisturisers had left her hands soft; lack of hard toil had prevented them from becoming knobbly and arthritic, as she remembered her mother's as being. Her regular - if supremely unmusical - attacks on the small upright piano that came with the flat had also helped there. Equally expensive moisturisers, UV protection inbuilt, made from the grossest things - from crude oil to fish spawn - prevented her face from drooping too drastically. Occasional, shameful Botox injections had not gone astray there either.

Her glasses were designer; she never could bring herself to bother with contacts. Her hair was as black as ever; or at least, as her hairdresser could make it. Regular walks and a diet that would have made Kate Moss feel competitive had kept her figure trim. All in all, for such a harsh, aesthetic woman, she kept herself well.

And Bertie had never noticed - she'd done it for him as much as herself.

Well, bugger Bertie. He had found a new lease of life; but it included her as much as the old life had. That is to say, not at all.

Going to pin her hair in a tight bun, Minnie paused, and thoughtfully brushed it out again. She ignored the kilt and sweater she had lain out for herself. She went instead to the back of her wardrobe, where the contents of one day's impulse buying lay nestled in paper shopping bags, labels still attached. She withdrew the sharply cut black trouser suit, the daringly low cut, red blouse, and quickly put them on.

Agenda for today: buy more new clothes, as all kilts and woolly jumpers are to be ritually burnt.

Life may not begin at forty-four, but that's no excuse not to get one.

|~

By eleven, Hermione felt sufficiently recovered to wolf down six sausages, three rashers, sinful heapings of black pudding and several rounds of toast. Blaise, picking unenthusiastically at a dry slice of toast, watched her in amazement and not a little alarm.

As Hermione reached for the ketchup, Blaise ventured to say, 'Clearly, you are not the queasy hangover type of person.'

Hermione shrugged, and swallowed a heaping mouthful of bacon. 'How would I know? This is my first time.'

'Oh. Yeah.'

Blaise dismissed the issue with a shake of her long, dyed black locks, and pressed on to more interesting matters.

'So...I take it you saw Black last night.' It wasn't a question.

'As you did,' Hermione said non-committedly. Blaise rolled her eyes.

'Enough with the blasé attitude. That's my name, that's my game. I thought he looked horrendous. Like a bridge tramp or something. And what was with that coat!'

'He certainly didn't put a lot of effort into his outfit, that's for sure,' Hermione agreed.

'I'd say he drank as much as you did, too. Why on earth was he out drowning his sorrows?'

'Innumerable reasons spring to mind. Perhaps he ate a bad Coco Pop last morning. Maybe Pansy's on his back. Perchance he found a split-end.'

'He kept shooting you evil looks, that I do recall.'

'Did he?' Hermione frowned, finding herself oddly disturbed by the news. 'I don't remember that.'

'Not surprising. You downed more Fat Frogs in the half-hour after he arrived than I've ever drunk. I don't think you were in a state to remember your own name at that stage.'

'You sound quite disapproving, given that you were the one who coerced me into going out in the first place.'

'Well, you can't say it wasn't a baptism of fire, at least.'

'Or a plague of frogs, perhaps? Seeing as we're being all biblical.'

There was a pause, filled only by the sound of Hermione's contented munching.

"I suppose you'll be heading home after this, for another joyful day of study,' Blaise said, sounding resigned.

'Nah,' Hermione said succinctly, ignoring Blaise's surprised look. 'I think I'll go wild and - _not study at all_ this weekend.'

'Truly, a daring move,' Blaise said, but her approval was genuine. 'What are you going to do today, then?'

'I have some ideas....'Hermione said vaguely, staring into the middle distance. Then her eyes abruptly snapped back onto Blaise. 'You - are going to be there too, aren't you?' she said, with a tremor of uncertainty.

Blaise leaned back casually in her chair and regarded Hermione with a wide grin. 'Last night I discovered you're a secret body-piercer. Then, you drink Black under the table, albeit across the room. Now you're abandoning study for a whole forty-eight hours.' She let her chair legs hit the floor again with a thud as she reached forward for more toast, her appetite suddenly returning. 'Of course I'm bloody coming. Otherwise, God knows what I could be missing.'

~

Draco sat huddled under his huge coat at the kitchen table, clutching his pounding head and trying to make sense of the world. He was making dispiritingly little progress; it made no more sense than when he wasn't hungover. There was, of course, the added complication of finding his mother and his history teacher in the throes of - something. Quite what, he would not be able to determine without immediate application of Alka Seltzer and psycho-analysis for his repression of all and any hints of knowledge regarding same.

He heard movement in the hall, and for a moment toyed with the idea of flinging himself under the table like a four-year-old. The warning alarm bells of pain ricocheting under his skull prevented him, and then it was too late to consider further action.

His mother entered the kitchen with the determined look of a firing squad member preparing to execute Erskine Childers. Draco scowled up at her, ignoring the wailing of pain inside his head.

'Where's lover boy?' he grated out.

'Joe has gone home. We - that is, I - thought it would be better if I talked to you alone.' She suddenly reached across the table and grasped his hands. 'Draco, I can explain -'

'It's quite alright, mother,' Draco said. 'I know where the birds and the bees come from. Under the cabbage patch. And oh, won't someone get me some painkillers!' he added plaintively. 'Horse tranquillisers! Anything!"

Narcissa made a noise in the back of her throat that could have been of amusement or annoyance. She gracefully rose from the table and started rummaging through cupboards.

'You're as bad as your father,' she said lightly. 'He could never hold his drink either.'

'I can hold my drink!' Draco snapped, affronted. 'I just - don't usually hold so much at one time.'

'How much, Draco?" Suddenly stern.

'Um - however much fifty five pounds can buy.' Meekly. 'Oh, and that reminds me. I must pay back Greg for the fifty.'

'You got drunk on someone else's money?" Narcissa quirked a pale eyebrow.

'Well, it would have been on my own, only you see, I was chucked out of my house with no cash on me,' Draco said sweetly.

The barb hit home. Narcissa hurriedly sat down again, pushing a glass of water and two Panadol tablets at her son, which he received with desperate gratitude.

'I don't want you to think I was trying to get rid of you -' she began.

'Why? It's what you were doing,' Draco pointed out, gulping down the first pill.

'Well, true, but only partly,' Narcissa continued, unabashed. 'I really was worried about you. It's not like you to mope. By the way, that is an absolutely horrible coat.'

'Stop turning the conversation around,' he commanded. 'Why was Binns here and what were you doing? Did you, perhaps, lose one of your other sons, and need his help in finding him? No, implausible, you only have one son. Me.'

He stopped and waited expectantly. Narcissa looked almost discomfited.

'I'm afraid you'll just have to accept that Joe and I are - together,' she said finally. 'Well, almost, I mean, he hasn't actually _said_ anything -'

Draco rolled his eyes. Typical. He was now privy to the convoluted love lives of both his parents. He was clearly going to be here for some time.

'Have we got any ice-cream?'

~

Hermione's plan for the day wasn't exactly earth shattering, except when seen in terms of her life, which could be viewed as one long cycle of neatly timetabled revision and learning, with short breaks for eating and sleeping.

They were going to a gaming arcade.

Hermione had never been to one before; it was not the sort of place, that, after the age of eight, you wanted to be taken to by your parents. By the time the protective Grangers had granted their only daughter permission to go out on her own, she was too enmeshed in a web of study to have either the time or the inclination to follow up on a childhood desire.

She still didn't have the time. The inclination, however, was another matter.

It was pure luck that a huge, shiny, new arcade had opened up in the local shopping complex - the place was called Zonko's, and it was immense. Vast, glittering disco balls revolved slowly under the flashing lighting, throwing Hermione's animated face, and Blaise's guarded one, into high relief.

Hermione wanted to try everything, and she had brought lots of money, too. She was just coaxing a wary Blaise onto a motorbike simulator, so they could have a virtual reality race, when she looked up, and her face twisted.

'What's _he_ doing here?'

~

Draco paused at the threshold of Zonko's, having been pulled thus far by the child-like eagerness of his two friends. When Narcissa had eventually released him - following the consumption of two tubs of Caramel Sutra Ben and Gerry's on his part and extensive soul-searching on her's- he had headed over to Greg's again with the intention of repaying him. He had found himself caught up in their plans for a day on the town, and was thankful for having changed his clothes and brushed his hair.

The sight that had greeted him when he passed through by his bedroom mirror had not been a pretty one. His eyes were webbed with delicate red lines, his clothes stunk of smoke and his hair - already whorled from lack of combing after its cold water wash - was unspeakable. He's had another shower, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a dark green Armani jumper - a Christmas present, from his mother. Over it all he had settled the sheepskin coat, after dousing it, first in Febreze, then in Lynx, to kill or at least overpower the scent of stale cigarettes. He'd become strangely attached to the thing. He had brushed his hair, but it was still wringing wet, and leaving cold trails of the back of his neck.

'Come on - let's play Pinball!' Greg urged, tugging on Vinnie's sleeve, and they shot away like greyhounds out of a trap, leaving Draco feeling rather lost.

He turned up the collar of his coat - another habit that was rapidly becoming engrained - and shot an icy look around the room. Only to meet a venomous, all-too-familiar brown stare.

'Granger,' he said with a sigh, refusing to acknowledge the pleasure the sight of her brought him. He rapidly turned away and headed for the well-stocked sweets counter, suddenly feeling the urge for more Ben and Gerry's.

 

~

'Go talk to him! You know you want to! And god, he's still wearing that awful animal skin,' Blaise said, hopping off the bike with almost indecent relief.

'I might want to, but I _can't_ ,' Hermione acknowledged reluctantly, through clenched teeth. The fact made her irrational anger at his presence burn more brightly. 'And he still has a girlfriend.'

'I'm not entirely sure you can even class Pansy as a member of the human race,' Blaise said impatiently. 'She must have a duck somewhere in her ancestry. Look, I'm going to the toilet. Don't follow me!'

She sped off, and Hermione was left standing gaping after her.

Well. It was clearly reckless courage in the face of abject fear that was called for here. She had _that_ , in spades.

She squared her shoulders and walked towards him. She thought, at first, of going to the other side of the sweet counter, pretending she didn't notice him, and allowing him to engage her in conversation if he wished.

But then she narrowed her eyes. She remembered her thoughts from the night before, concerning Lavender's now-I-mean-it, now-I-don't, attitude. She wasn't going to play-act.

This wasn't a game. This was Life.

~

Draco watched her approach with wariness, poised to flee, only hampered by the tub of ice cream that he was in the process of paying for. She looked attractive, far more so than the night before. Her woolly zipped-up jumper allowed him just the merest, tantalising glimpse of collarbone. She also looked very, very angry. Draco gulped, and wondered, first what exactly he had done, and second where the emergency exits were located.

'Black,' she acknowledged him curtly.

'Granger,' he returned, clutching his congealed dairy product for dear life and snatching his change from the woman at the till.

She ran her eyes down him, making him redden unaccountably. There was nothing appraising in her gaze, which was a thoughtful one, but he found it helplessly seductive, nonetheless. She appeared to be thinking deeply.

'I like the coat,' she said, and graced him with the first real smile he'd ever received from her.

'Thanks,' he managed, trying his best not to die from shock.

Her manner became abruptly business-like. She stepped in closer to him, and he could smell her perfume, although he had no idea what it was. He was uncomfortably aware of the stultifying combination of Lynx and Febreze emanating from himself as the coat warmed up.

'I fancy you, you do realise,' she said, with as much passion as a pathologist declaring the obvious about a corpse.

Time held its breath as he stared, terrified, into her eyes and saw the glimmer of uncertainty there. On spotting it, his devilish side decided to play Russian Roulette.

'Good to know,' he squeaked.

She frowned, put one hand lightly on his shoulder, curling her fingers in his damp hair, drew him closer to her, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

For a second, the tableau held. Their lips brushed, parted slightly, and the kiss deepened. Hermione's hand tightened at the back of Draco's head, sliding her fingers through the heavy silkiness of his wet locks.

Then, before he could think of dropping his ice cream, grabbing her tightly, kissing her harder, more urgently, before he could even think of anything at all except her mouth and her hands and the warmth of her body, she had spun away from him.

~

Hermione burst into the bathroom, hair flying, cheeks high with colour, just as Blaise was washing her hands.

'Quick! Quick!' she shouted, sounding terrified, but there was an octave of panicked amusement in her voice. 'We've got to get out of here!'

Not waiting for Blaise to respond, she whirled around, and spotting the one, small, half-open window, she charged for it.

'What the -' Blaise followed more slowly, as Hermione's hands grasped the sill and she began hoisting herself up. 'Hermione, you really aren't - what _happened_?'

Hermione glanced at her, one arm and half a leg already over the edge of the window. It was a look of someone who had rushed in where angels feared to tread, with bells, balls and brio, and was now out on the other side. She grinned widely.

'I kissed him, I kissed him, that's what,' she gasped, hauling herself over. Her next words were accompanied by an 'ooof' as she landed hard in the concrete car park. 'Now come on, we've got to get out of here!'

Blaise shook her head in admiration, and grabbed the windowsill.

~

Later, much later, Sev finally asked.

'My name is Marv,' the man said, smiling the long, slow smile of the recently and soon to be again shagged.

|~

Minnie stood nervously at the reception desk as the secretary fussed with papers and forms. She was already regretting what she'd done, but it was too late to go back now. She'd applied, she'd signed her name, she'd even given them a check for Christ's sakes, and now she was in with no way out.

'All right then,' the secretary - a Mrs Figg, from her nametag - said, finally shuffling all her papers into one neat pile. 'If you'll just wait a moment, I can just print out a list of recommended reading material for you, and you'll be ready to go.' The older woman gave Minnie a cheerful smile, which Minnie felt ill-disposed to return. She walked slowly over to a row of modern wooden waiting chairs, and idly flicked through the piled academic journals, which were scattered over the low ash table.

She became immersed in an article about Reflective Practice, and so didn't look up when another person entered the airy reception area from the campus side and began speaking to the secretary in a deep, mellifluous voice.

'Anything for me, Arabella?'

'Hang on for a second, dear, and I'll just check. I'm printing out something for the lady over there. Actually -' there was a rustle of papers, 'Yes, she's in your new course, as it happens.'

'I think I'll go over and introduce myself, then.'

'Good idea.' Arabella's voice dropped a notch. 'I think she's a little hesitant.'

'Well then, I'll definitely have to talk with her.'

There was a patter of footsteps; a man's heavy tread. Minnie deigned to look up - carefully composing her face into a cool, set mask - and for only the second time in her life, fell completely, utterly and helplessly in love.

The blonde vision pushed back his crinkly gold hair and winked one eye - so blue it was almost purple - at her, and held out a hand. He was dressed in a stylish, if loud, suit of royal blue, with a lemon coloured tie.

'Hello,' he said warmly, taking her hand in a warm grasp and, instead of shaking it, pressing it briefly to his lips.

'Hello,' Minnie replied, breathlessly, completely bowled over.

The man - who looked in his mid to late forties - settled himself in the chair next to hers and leaned close enough to cause her heart to jump around uncomfortably.

'Now,' he began engagingly, 'People around here tend to call me a lot of things, You Lazy Bastard being favourite, but I think I'll just introduce myself as Gil, for that is my given name. Now, I hear you've applied for my Master's programme.....'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do know that Fat Frogs in fact consist of a brain-melting mixture of Barcardi Breezer, WKD and Smirnoff Ice, and that any relationship with apples would probably be limited to an advertising campaign...but I wanted to use my favourite Pterry line. I reckon Fat Frogs would meet Nanny Ogg's approval, in any case...


	4. Lovefool

_Jealousy is all the fun you think they had_. -Erica Lang

Sev walked though the school gates on Monday morning at a quarter past nine, a vague, although undoubtedly satisfied, look on his face. As his feet crunched on the gravel of the schoolyard, there was a squeal of tyres as a small, battered car with a taxi sign pinned to its roof peeled away from the curb.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers - Friday's trousers, and Friday's shirt, all smelling strongly of days old Calvin Klein for Men and sex. That would certainly give Selina a start. In the brisk coldness of a grey Monday Sev was coming to the sudden and unwelcome realisation that there might be hell to pay for his debauched weekend of hedonism....

~

Hermione smoothed down her skirt, which Blaise's mother had taken up for her on Saturday night. She had refused to wear it rolled up at the waist, but was now wishing that she hadn't been so insistent on that point - if she hadn't been, she could have pulled it back down now, as her nerve failed her.

The first person she passed on her way to class was Seamus, who gave her a friendly grin and a "Howya." She passed him by, slightly confused, and met with Blaise coming the opposite way. Before she could speak, Blaise rolled her eyes.

'Gay. Duh!'

~

Remus didn't feel one bit of regret. Not one. That gnawing feeling, in the pit of his gut, was clearly -indigestion. Exactly. Just because he'd never got indigestion from eating cornflakes and drinking tea before - or indeed the fact that he'd never suffered from indigestion in his life - did not make it any less of a plausible explanation.

~

Draco slumped - as far as it is possible to slump on a backless lab stool - and brooded, much as he had done all weekend, about Hermione's kiss. He had got no further on figuring out her motives than "What the hell? Was she dared?" He didn't want to tell Vinnie and Greg, for not only were they far from being souls of discretion, they weren't exactly given to deep introspection either. And what with his father thinking he was the ultimate Prince of Smooth - Lucius had actually rung him on Sunday evening, asking him to come round during the week for a confab on the French teacher's love life, for some reason - and his mother looking on him as being only one step down from an agony aunt, he could hardly turn to them for advice, even if he had been in the habit of doing anything so wimpy. So all in all, he was rightly screwed.

And then Hermione walked in.

For some reason, Snape, who was always a model of punctuality, and never failed to be in his "dungeon" (as he called the chemistry lab) to meet them at every class, wasn't there. But Draco would hardly have noticed if he sashayed in wearing a grass skirt and a yasmak, he was so busy drinking in Hermione's appearance like she was a drinkable thing.

All of the little changes that she'd been perpetrating - with Blaise's encouragement - in the last few weeks slotted together at that particular moment in time and left Draco with an expression last seen on someone hit with a large hammer. The long ribs of hair, smooth as satin now, the slick of lip gloss and hint of mascara (she had point blank refused more than that, maintaining she felt like a clown), and the suddenly short skirt were things that would barely have merited attention on their own, only for the fact that Draco noticed most things about Hermione.

Hermione, for her part, had been fretting about how she was going to treat Black now that she had kissed him. She could barely remember it, in truth, what with the excitement and the fright of the whole episode, except that it had been - nice. She hadn't managed to gage Black's reaction to it, either; for all she knew, he could be hopping mad that she had forced herself on him. She hoped it wasn't so, however.

She perched on her seat, and gently set down her neat pile of books, arranged in order of size - some things never change. Then she turned to look at him, at his immobile, sharp-featured face and pale gold hair, immaculately slicked back now. She found herself wishing he'd left it as it was, realised the impossibility of having permanently wet hair, and said the first stupid thing that came into her head.

'Where's Snape?'

Hermione mentally smacked herself. After all that pain and sleeplessness over what she was going to say, and she came out with an inane comment about a _teacher_! For some reason, though, Black looked almost - relieved, and she realised that they had managed to skirt the whole kissing issue entirely.

She couldn't decide whether to be delighted or upset, and settled for neither.

'Um, I don't know, actually,' Black said, sounding unnaturally subdued.

They sat in silence for a few moments, appreciating the view of whatever was above and slightly to the left of the other person's head - in Draco's case, a row of conical flasks on the shelf on the opposite wall, and in Hermione's, a deeply interesting wall poster concerning the discovery of ammonia.

For once, the entry of Snape provided a welcome distraction. But when Hermione clocked his appearance, which was on the rumpled side of 'slept-in', she gaped unashamedly, and turned to raise her eyebrows at Blaise.

Blaise was sitting two desks behind with a self-satisfied little smile on her face. When Hermione caught her eye, she grinned wickedly and mouthed: 'Somebody got laid!'

Hermione shook her head in mock disapproval, catching sight of Black's astonished expression as she turned to face the front.

Without looking at her, he sniggered under his breath, 'Jeez, looks like someone got some!'

Hermione just grinned as she realised the parity of their comments with the observational evidence she alone seemed to have picked up. For when Snape had gone to sit in his accustomed chair behind the front desk, he had visibly winced, and hurriedly took a standing position instead.

Nor did he sit down for the entire class.

~

Sev's extended lesson with 6A meant that it was breaktime before he managed to gain the peace of the staffroom and some blessed caffeine. His legs were killing him, but he was uncomfortably certain that the act of sitting, now the whole libidinous glow had worn off, would be distinctly worse. He smelt worse than ever and had belatedly remembered, halfway through the class, that his boxers were still on Marv's bathroom floor.

Marv. He allowed himself a small half smile at the memory. Marv was unlike anyone he'd ever met. He appeared to have no conscience, no qualms. The sexual exploits that he had recounted - when they actually talked, which was not often - were - varied, to say the least. He hadn't seemed fazed by Sev's lingering, unsubstantiated guilt about what he was doing, although nor had he offered any reassurance on that score. He just - kissed him, clearly thinking that if Sev wanted to stop, he'd stop, and that either way was fine with him.

Emotionally uninvolved, to say the least. But the sex had been great. Now, Sev was willing to admit that he was at least bisexual. Maybe even a little more defined than that, for if it came to a choice between, say, Marv and Selina, well, there was no choice -

And what about Remus? said a little voice quietly. Sev ignored it. Remus and Marv were two different people. Yes, he'd had sex - lots of sex with Marv, and he was okay with that.

And you're falling in love with Remus, are you okay with that? the little voice said, a shade sarcastically.

Sev decided he needed some human converse, quickly, before he started seeming little green men or something.

The staffroom, when he pushed open the door, was in shade, and apparently almost empty. A few hunched shapes that could have been teachers, or there again just piles of coats, were slumped in two or three vinyl chairs. Quirking a frown, Sev headed for the coffee machine like a bee to nectar.

Remus' voice made him look up from the polystyrene cup he was filling with slightly viscous brown sludge. The sight of Remus, standing in the door and talking in a low voice with Mrs Sprout, made him lose control of his jaw muscles and simply stand there, with scalding coffee cascading out of the machine, all over his hands.

His - hair and and what was that in his - and what was he wearing and is he standing right in front of me?

Sev's swirling thoughts were broken in on by Remus' voice, and was he imagining it or did it have a timbre of uncertainty, a resonance of nervousness, in it?

'Severus? How are - I mean, look, you stupid man, you're pouring coffee over yourself!'

His words awakened Sev's nerve endings, previously paralysed from shock, and he howled in pain.

'Shh, don't be silly now,' Remus' voice was low and placating, as if he was dealing with a frightened foal. Without Sev quite registering what he was doing, Remus had taken his left hand, wrenched the cup from his grasp and was now leading him, with the aid of one arm curled around his back, and the other lightly gripping his burnt hand, to the kitchenette sink.

Not removing his arm from around Sev, Remus twisted on the cold tap, all the while making soothing sounds which Sev imbibed in a heady mixture of agony and no-holds-barred lust. Remus' arm was firm around him, the closeness and warmth of his body - with a faint scent of some musky aftershave - was intoxicating.

'I'm an idiot,' he muttered.

'You are,' Remus agreed, without malice. He carefully removed his arm, shoving his hand into his pocket, and Sev felt suddenly bereft. He looked down at the grubby sink, letting the icy water soothe his red, angry skin, and trying to think of nothing else but the water.

Then he remembered, and looked up at Remus - who did, after all, have an inch or two on him, a long, gangly, lean, sinewy - stop, mind! Sev commanded. He counselled himself to consider only Remus' appearance, which had caused the whole situation.

It wasn't just clothes. They weren't much different from what he usually wore, only the jeans were slightly more fitted and clung to his legs, and the black mohair jumper was oddly free of running seams or holes, and was a narrow, close fit. It was mainly his hair.

He'd cut off all his beautiful hair, leaving only a faint chocolately stubble, with an artfully gel-spiked crown. In addition, one of his fine eyebrows was pierced - the right one, with a simple, yet striking, solid silver bar.

'You look - wow,' he fumbled.

Remus smiled, because for him it was worth it, just for that.

 

~

'Look, there she is!'

Seamus rolled his eyes and continued inspecting his nails.

'Do you think I should call her over?'

'You went on a date with her. You snogged her. You woulda felt her up only you're too much of a gentleman. So, no, I think you should just stand here lathering up like a dog. Or Dr Hyde.'

'You are so much help, Seamus.'

'I aim to displease.'

Seamus watched in mild amusement as Dean tentatively waved a hand, and seeing he'd caught Ginny's attention, half-beckoned her over. He had to admire the girl's cool. She smiled enigmatically at Dean, then turned back to her group of friends. Dean looked over his shoulder at Seamus, a woebegone expression on his face. With difficulty, he restrained himself from slapping him.

'Belt up,' he advised his best mate. 'She's playing hard to get. Listen to me and for once don't argue. Turn and face me, then laugh - normally, not like a dying donkey.'

'I don't laugh like a donkey!' Dean sounded injured, but at least his back was now turned to Ginny.

'Sorry, did I say donkey? I meant horse. Never mind! Just chortle, there, go on.'

Looking highly suspicious, Dean complied, albeit a little hesitantly.

'It worked,' Seamus said, crossing his arms in satisfaction and nodding in Ginny's direction. She had looked up when Dean laughed, and as she watched, Seamus pulled an amused face and clapped Dean on the shoulder, as if he'd said something worth applauding. And indeed, Ginny was now meandering purposefully their way.

'Is she coming over?'

'Yep.'

'God, for a gay guy you know an awful lot about chicks.'

'Some would say that's the point. And for Jesus' sake don't call her a chick.'

'Why - I mean, I wasn't going to!'

'Yes, you were. And just to make it clear, in case you hadn't noticed, she is neither yellow nor fluffy.'

'Hi Dean,' Ginny interposed in a seductive growl. Seamus nodded amiably at her, unmoved, while Dean was reduced to a state of near catatonia.

'I'll push off then, shall I,' Seamus asked rhetorically.

'No, hang about for a sec,' Ginny said. Seamus declined to point out that that was even more insulting than just telling him to leave, as he wanted to know why she requested his presence. He hoped to god that she wasn't bored of Dean already. He acted like a twerp around girls, but that was exactly it, he _needed_ some practice.

'Listen, I was wondering,' she was saying, 'if you're both interested, I thought we could go on a double date this Friday - nothing special, only the Leaky Cauldron.'

Seamus' heart sank. Dean was looking at him hopefully, and even if he hadn't been Seamus knew he couldn't let him down. But still, the thought of an entire evening with some young girlfriend of Ginny's - all sparkly lipgloss and obscene clothing - made him almost physically ill.

He forced a rictus of pleasure onto his features.

'Sounds like fun, Ginny! Count me in.'

And Seamus forced himself to look away from the pathetic gratitude in Dean's eyes, because that wasn't, and would never be, what he wanted to see there.

~

Minnie had come to the staffroom for her lunch and with the secondary motive of finding Bertie, to confirm with him that she could take a half-day on Thursdays to attend lectures. However, when she got there, Bertie was nowhere to be seen. The staffroom was occupied only by Sybil, who was reading Remus' star sign to him while he listened with a fixed expression, and Sev, who was asleep on a chair cradling one hand on his chest. Minnie gave it up as a bad job and went to the mini-fridge to get out her fat-free yoghurt and celery sticks.

She seated herself next to Remus, who looked like the wind had changed. Peering closer at him, she noted that the wind seemed to have given him a makeover too - Remus was sporting a distinctly better-groomed appearance than usual. She wondered if it was for the sake of the man who was snoring slightly opposite them, and with a sinking feeling remembered that Sev had had his date with Selina that weekend. Perhaps the new look was more out of desperation than a real desire for improvement.

Sybil was still droning on about Venus in the Houses, and Remus was propping his eye open with two fingers. Seen from the right angle, it almost looked as if he were making a rude gesture in her direction. In fact, coupled with the rebellious new eyebrow piercing, it could almost certainly be taken as such. Minnie hid a smile, for some reason glad that Remus wasn't all sweetness and light, after all.

Sybil, finally tired of the sound of her own voice, or more probably Remus' lack of reaction to it, abruptly rose from the table with the murmured excuse of needing to check her crystal ball. Remus jerked his head upright and groaned in relief.

'Thank God! I thought the woman would never shut up! And why is she convinced that I'm a Leo? I told her at least three times that my birthday was yesterday -'

'Your birthday was yesterday?' Sev jerked awake suddenly.

'I thought you were asleep,' Remus said in mild surprise.

'So did I,' Minnie said pointedly. 'I've a feeling that he was just faking his patented "ooh I've had a late night especially when Sybil's around" power nap.'

'You left me to listen to her on my own? You bastard!'

'Your birthday was yesterday?' Sev persisted with the tenacity of a king crab.

'Yes, you must have heard me say it those times!' said Remus in exasperation.

'I thought you were just trying to foil her.'

'Why would I lie?' Remus asked quizzically. The question seemed to stump Sev, for his head slipped beneath the level of the table once again.

Sev was gritting his teeth. Of all the times to have a sexual revelation . . . he could have been - well, potentially anyway - celebrating with Remus - no wonder he'd been in a bad mood, he had thought no one knew, or remembered.

Minnie, meanwhile, was feeling thoughtfully in her pocket, where she had put a certain scrap of paper this morning, meaning, today, to give it to Remus. And what better time than on his birthday?

'Here,' she whispered to Remus, shoving it into his hand while he regarded her with a bemused expression. 'I found this on the table after Selina asked him out.'

She picked up her celery and headed for the door, intending to go outside and eat. To his credit, Remus did not ask her whom the 'he' whom she'd referred to was. It wasn't like he didn't already know.

He unfolded the paper - A4, lined, torn hastily out of a notepad - carefully; trying not to make any excess rustling noises. He read:

My eyes deceive me.

Are you a brilliant radiant

royal blue Ulysses butterfly -

Or just a dull grey moth?

The light shines on your face and I know for an instant -

Once gone, I am all confusion and doubt.

Remus. what are you doing to my head??

Remus hid a smile in his hand as Sev raised his head to blink at him.

In truth, he didn't know what to feel about this. Sev had never given him permission to read his poetry and yet he had. He'd written a poem that was inspired by, or at least someway connected to Remus, and if he'd wished Remus to read it he would have given it to him. And yet he had left it lying around, for Minnie to pick up. What did it all mean? And was the blasted man straight or what?

But looking at Sev's tousled head, his curling brows and cello-shank mouth, set in an adorable expression of apprehensive confusion, he knew for an instant that none of it mattered.

~

Draco swung in his door that evening, after calling round to Vinnie's place for "one" extended game of Final Fantasy 10, to find Joe Binns already in situ, ensconced in Draco's favourite squashy armchair near the fashionable metal fire hood. Sitting opposite him, looking incredibly uncomfortable, was his father. His mother hovered between them, like a mosquito stuck between two repellent flames.

'Well, this is interesting,' he drawled.

'Draco! You're home!' his mother said, tripping forward with extended arms like something out of a Jane Austen film.

'Well, done, mother, state the obvious.' He rolled his eyes and sidestepped her artificed embrace.

'Where were you till now?' She sounded suddenly reprimanding, clearly as a show for both of the older men. Draco rolled his eyes.

'At Vinnie's. I sent you a text message, but you probably put your phone in the microwave again, what?'

'I only did that once!' his mother hissed, incensed.

'Yeah, this guy she fancied didn't call her back, so she decided to fry her phone,' Draco called over to Binns, enjoying his mother's discomfiture, which he would undoubtedly pay for later. Binns nodded at him, as if agreeing to some profound statement. Draco ground his molars together. Did _nothing_ rattle the man?

He dropped his bag on the carpet and sunk into the couch beside his father, leaving his mother fuming in the vicinity of an occasional table.

'Wotcha, Dad. Been here long?'

'Ten minutes, only,' said Lucius, and under his breath, 'Thank god. I think I caught them almost _in flagrante delicto_.'

'Really?' Draco drew out the word, and stored up the information for later use in blackmailing his mother. He didn't regard it as a wrong thing to do, because she did it all the time. He wondered when Binns would fall foul to it. And what did she see in him? He'd have to ask his dad. Perhaps the whole unibrow thing was a sign of virility or something.

'As I was just saying to Cissy,' Lucius cleared his throat and raised his voice, 'I was going to take you for a slap-up tea at my place. Sirius is cooking ribs.'

'Yum!' Draco said enthusiastically. 'I'm gone! Just let me change.'

'Sure.'

'Lucius, you know I don't like him eating dead animals,' Narcissa said with a frown.

Draco, about to snap out another retort to the effect that he was not a veggie, smiled instead. 'All those poor little piggies,' he sighed melodramatically. His mother eyed him suspiciously. 'Giving up their lives for Binns' ham samwiches, its a cruel ol' world, huh?'

He made it out of the door just in time.

~

Half an hour later, Draco was happily tucking into prime ribs, knocking elbows with his father and his father's boyfriend as they laid into the meat without bothering with the inconvenience of cutlery, or indeed plates. This was the life, in Draco's opinion. It would even be worth being gay to eat off the table and avoid floral patterns for life. Though he thought he might see how other gay people ate and decorated, before making a final judgement on that.

Around a mouthful of British pork, Draco asked, 'Were you wanting to talk to me about Loony Lupin and Add A Bit More Acid Snape, or what?'

The other two shared a significant look.

'Remus is an old friend of mine,' Sirius said, spitting out a bit of bone. 'He's gone awfully mopey since Snape went on a date with someone called Selina last Friday.'

'Snape scored Miss Vector?' Draco's eyes were round with admiration. 'Wow. No wonder Remus' jealous. She is majorly hot.'

Lucius grinned at his son's idiosyncratic heterosexuality. 'I think his jealousy was more to do with the fact that she is a girl, more than anything.'

'Oh, yeah. What to do? I mean, it's obvious Lupin fancies Snape - although why, I can't imagine.'

'What does he look like?' Lucius asked with interest.

Seeing Sirius open his mouth, Draco had the presence of mind to distract him by stamping down hard on his foot. He knew his father had a rabid jealousy problem. He'd inherited it. 'Let me see,' he said with perfect innocence. 'Medium height, longish gelled black hair, inexplicably wears leather trousers one day out of three...'

'Sounds like his type, all right.' Lucius shot his lover a sidelong look, but Sirius, his mouth full of food, merely puffed out his cheeks like a hamster.

'I suppose you've seen Remus' radical image overhaul,' Draco said, taking a long refreshing swig of BPM. Sirius had offered him neat vodka, but Draco had been forced to decline in view of his father's impending coronary at the suggestion.

'No,' his father replied. 'Have you, Sirius?'

'I don't know anything about it,' Sirius said with a small frown. 'What's he gone and done, exactly?'

'He chopped off his hair and pierced his eyebrow,' Draco said breezily, unaware of the surprised looks the other two were sharing. 'It's nothing half as cool as mine, the bar I mean, but I got mine off this specialist website that hopefully he knows nothing about.' He ended his rambling as he finally clued in to the thoughtful look on Sirius' face, and the anxious one on his father's. 'What is it?'

Sirius shook his head impatiently, like he was trying to get rid of an irritating fly. 'Oh, it just made me remember something. He must really have it bad for this one.'

'Why do you say that?' Draco asked with interest.

'Because I remember him doing it once before. We were about sixteen, and I hadn't come out yet. Remus was mad for this chap called Kingsley something. God, I can't recall his last name. Bolter, maybe? Anyway, not only would Kingsley not have noticed that Remus fancied him if he hired a skywriter to do it, he was a confirmed heterosexual. Remus went into a sort of determined rebellion. Dyed his hair green and got a tattoo, as it happens.'

'What was the tattoo of?' Lucius asked guardedly.

'A wolf, on his lower back.'

'So you think that was his reasoning for getting a haircut? The fact that Snape is straight?' Draco asked thoughtfully. 'Wow. Usually I just go when it gets a bit long.'

'Well, the situations are awfully similar, don't you think?' Sirius argued.

'Its all circumstantial evidence. There could be any reason why he decided to ditch the whole Darcy hairstyle. Because its so damnably uncool, perhaps.' Draco shrugged.

'Well, if we take Sirius' hypothesis as fact, all it means is that we have further proof of what we already know - to wit, that Remus likes Snape,' his father pointed out.

'Yes, what is it, exactly, that you want me to do?' Draco asked, reaching for another rib and licking the grease off of his fingers. 'Shoulder Lupin into Snape's arms when I pass them in the corridor? Start carving little hearts with RL 4 SS on the desks? I really don't think it's advisable for me to try to set up teachers. Expulsion is something I can deal with only in the abstract, not the reality.'

'I agree,' Lucius said, although Sirius pursed his lips, clearly disappointed at this lack of foolhardy courage. 'Messing about with the affairs of two teachers is not only stupid, its unlikely to yield any decent results. What we need,' and here he narrowed his eyes to snake-like slits, 'is a little guile.'

'What did you have in mind, Dad?'

'It's fairly simple,' Lucius said, rubbing a finger against his jaw. 'Two people, if they like each other, will eventually end up together. It's a tradition, or an old charter, or something. Our main obstacle is the fact that Snape is - or at least thinks that he is - straight.'

'What's your point?' Draco asked impatiently.

'We need you to find out for sure that he's _not_ ,' Lucius replied, grinning evilly. 'Whether rumour or truth, it doesn't matter. I mean, do you think he's straight, Draco?'

'I never thought about it,' Draco said, taken slightly by surprise. 'He does flirt with the girls in class an awful lot - '

'Denial,' said Sirius with certainty.

'Maybe. He's never had a girlfriend that I know of, anyway.' Draco frowned meditatively. 'I think I'll ask Blaise Zabini. She seems to know everything about everyone.'

'That's not your girlfriend, is it?' Sirius raised his eyebrows.

'I don't have a girlfriend,' Draco said, thinking Hermione's not my girlfriend - _yet._

'What about that Pansy girl?' Lucius asked in consternation.

'Oh, her,' Draco said testily. 'Well, she may think she is, but she's not going to be for long. I'm breaking up with her tomorrow. I was only using her to make someone else jealous.'

'Sneaky,' Lucius approved in admiration, at the same time as Sirius exclaimed, 'That's awful!' Draco swigged more BPM, watching their polar opposite expressions with amusement.

'Let's hope it really is true that opposites attract,' he said fatuously. Sirius and Lucius shared a look of intent before chucking breadrolls at him.

~

Draco halted Sev in the halls the following day on the pretext of a query about a recent experiment. Once Sev had finished pretending to die of shock (to Draco's annoyance), he gave Draco a long and detailed answer that nearly bored him to tears, especially as he already knew it in depth from notes copied from Hermione. Draco began to fear that he would be out of time before he could achieve what he'd set out to do, when Sev gave him an unexpected opening.

'I see you're quite the trend-setter now, young Black,' Sev said loftily, and added quickly, with all the appearance of guilelessness, 'after all, even Mr Lupin has taken your eyebrow-piercing idea.'

'Oh, I don't mind,' Draco said carelessly, performing a hasty inner tap dance. 'After all, I copied him in getting a tattoo. His wolf tattoo is so cool; I just had to get one. Oh, there's the bell. I'd better go and find a place to loiter before being late for class.'

Standing in pleasant contemplation, his last words only hit Sev after he was long gone. To the amazement of a passing group of first-years, he grinned inanely and walked off, shaking his head slightly.

~

Hermione was, for once, not sitting next to Black in history, as Binns had separated them out for a test. She was still across from him though, and kept shooting him quick looks between questions, interested to see how he would fare without her to copy from.

Annoyingly, he had his head down, scribbling furiously, and she didn't once catch his eye.

With a sigh, she turned back to her own paper, and found that she had written 'and when Black invaded the country of Abyssinia'. Vexed, she scribbled out his name with more force than was strictly necessary.

Blaise had informed her earlier in the day that Black was still, despite all her pronouncements on his feelings for Hermione, going out with Duckface. Blaise had promised to try and squeeze her for information during French, but Hermione didn't hold out much hope. Now, not only was she an idiot, she was also an adulteress. Or at least had forced Black to become one. It was not a happy place to be.

'Pens down please! Test over,' Binns said, without the slightest hint of raising his voice. He meandered down between the desks, collecting papers with a look on his face that would have suggested to the uninformed observer that they were nail bombs. Hermione held out hers at the ready, and noticed that Black was still writing.

Binns took her paper and turned to Black. He leant over him and said in his usual low voice - now almost obscured by the babel in the classroom - 'Test's over, Draco.'

She watched, in dawning comprehension, as Black's head snapped up in shock and his gaze flashed around the room, his face set in a murderous scowl. Nobody except Hermione had taken note of Binns' words, however. Black shoved his test into Binns' hands, and muttered what could have been, 'I am going to kill you, you know.'

Binns, his expression bland, returned what sounded like, 'How nice, Draco.'

And as he turned to pass her desk, Hermione could have sworn that Binns tipped her a wink.

~

 

The new day had brought for Sev relief on several counts. He was freshly attired, newly washed and hangover-free. He was also intent on tricking Remus or otherwise into going out to celebrate his birthday.

He was helped considerably by Remus' request for a meeting with him at breaktime. He swaggered into the free classroom chosen by Remus, and halted in some confusion at the sight of Bertie and Minnie, who were clustered around a desk with him. All Sev's grand plans of throwing Remus down and ravishing him mercilessly shrivelled and died small, quiet deaths.

'Ah, there you are!' Remus said cheerfully, beckoning him over. Reluctantly, Sev grabbed a chair and dragged it next to Bertie, the only available space being the one furthest from Remus.

'I just called this little meeting to talk about the sixth form trip,' Remus went on.

'Oh, did you hear back from that charity place then?' said Sev with interest.

Remus hid a smile at his bluntness and replied blandly, 'Yes, and they are happy to extend full remuneration for the trip. I just wanted to go over details with you and Minnie, as year heads, and Bertie's approval must also be gained.'

'As if I would refuse it!' Bertie said heartily. 'Are you planning to go yourself, Remus?'

'I was thinking about it,' Remus admitted. 'But only if I can be spared, of course.'

'I think we'll manage something,' Bertie said, twinkling.

Sev tuned out after that, as Remus and Bertie went over facts and figures, with the occasional interjection from Minnie. So Remus was going, was he? That would certainly make the trip less of a halfway house to hell...indeed, on the contrary...

So lost in his thoughts was he that the light pressure against his leg made him yelp out loud.

'Are you quite all right, Severus?' Minnie asked him, peering at him over the top of her glasses.

'Perfectly fine, thank you!' Sev gasped, for now a warm foot was slowly but surely insinuating itself around his left ankle and Remus was looking at Bertie with a little more intentness than his comment on bus fares deserved.

Remus concluded the meeting a few minutes later, for which Sev was unutterably thankful - a few more seconds, and that wandering foot would have been between his legs, and the result of _that_ was not something Sev wished to share in company.

Minnie and Bertie made their way out, chatting companionably. Remus stayed behind, ostensibly tidying papers, while Sev slumped in his chair, trying to regulate his breathing.

'Are you coming, Sev?' Remus asked, tucking his folders under his arm.

'Almost,' Sev replied in a strangulated voice. Remus' choice of words gave him a sudden need not to stand up anytime in the near future. He wished Remus would just _go_ , and tried desperately to think about really boring things, like correcting tests and the Eurovision.

Abruptly, Remus sat down again, sweeping a chair around so that he was hugging the back of it and his face was only inches from Sev's. 'I'm really glad you're going along with this idea,' he said sincerely.

'No problem,' Sev managed.

'I was wondering - ' they both said at the same time. 'No, you first,' Remus said courteously.

'Well, I thought you might like to come out for a drink with me, to celebrate your birthday,' Sev said, the words coming out in a rush. 'That is, if you're not doing anything - '

'I'd love to,' Remus said firmly. 'In fact, I was just going to ask you if you'd like to do that - you know, have a drink.' Sev noted with astonishment that he was blushing, and wondered what on earth Remus had been thinking about. Then, as his current situation came back to him, he just as hastily decided he didn't want to know.

Remus had risen again and was at the door when Sev called after him, 'Meet you at about six, in the Leaky Cauldron?'

'Sure,' Remus replied, lingering. Finally feeling capable of standing, Sev joined him. Just before they separated to go to different classrooms, Sev said in a low, suggestive drawl, 'And maybe you could show me your tattoo?'

He swept off, leaving Remus behind him, bemused, very impressed, and with an urgent desire to get quickly behind the shelter of a desk.

~

Hermione had taken Black's advice - loath as she would be to admit it - and ditched the school PE uniform, following a trail long left cold by her classmates. She was not, however, thick-skinned enough to dare the school skirt, as sported by Blaise and Lavender and Co. She had opted instead for a nondescript sky-blue jumper and navy O'Neills.

'Did Pansy have anything useful to say?' Hermione asked Blaise in an undertone. 'Shocking and all as that would be.'

'No - she didn't come in till the end of class, and I think she was crying.' Blaise sounded preoccupied, and following her gaze, Hermione realised why. Harry was standing - leaning, rather, against the mesh fence, looking suitably fragile. Hermione hoped a wind would spring up, to see if he'd be blown over. Ron was not in evidence, which may have accounted for his lost-puppy expression.

Smiling wickedly, Hermione cleared her throat and yelled, 'Hey. _Potter_! C'mere for a sec, wouldja?'

'What the hell do you think you are doing?' Blaise said out of the corner of her mouth, her eyes wide in suppressed horror.

'What, little old me?' said Hermione innocently, deliberately not looking at her. Harry, after looking up in uncertainty and surprise, was now shambling their way, hands thrust defensively into the pockets of his baggy trousers. Beside her, Hermione could _feel_ Blaise going into meltdown.

'Hey Harry,' Hermione said in a friendly tone, ignoring the fact that she'd never spoken to him in her life before. 'How did you find the history test?'

'Um, okay,' he said nervously. He was biting the side of his lip, and squinting up at the sky. Hermione, a bit irritated, snapped her fingers in his face, belatedly realising it could have caused him to have a seizure. 'I'm down here,' she pointed out, not unkindly.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Ah, what questions did you do?'

'The ones on Prussia and Mussolini's Italy,' Hermione responded enthusiastically. 'I - '

'Oh, God, what have you done, Potter?' Blaise groaned dramatically, and only Hermione could have heard the slight trembling in her voice. 'She can go for hours about this, you know.'

Harry grinned but said nothing. Hermione viewed him objectively. He had a nice smile but he was definitely undernourished. Oh well, if Blaise wanted him...

'Oh, that's my friend, Blaise,' she said airily. 'You may know her - she fancies you like mad.'

And she quickly drifted off, before Blaise could belt her.

Blaise remained, staring fixedly at her feet and feeling a blush rising up, all the way from her toes. She looked up when she felt Harry tentatively touch her shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' she said quickly. 'I mean, I do fancy you - oh, _shit_ , I did not mean to say that!'

'Why not?' Harry's tone was quizzical, and she looked into his thin face, at his kiwi-green eyes, which were mainly dilated pupil. 'I mean, I fancy you too.'

~

Hermione hid behind the shed, giggling like mad from hysteria and fear. She had no idea what had come over her. First kissing Black, now this - what next, pole dancing in English?

She eventually dared to emerge, but kept strategically to the far side of the court from Blaise, who actually didn't seem all that angry. In fact, she was sitting in goals, sharing earplugs with Harry. Hermione felt elated at her success. Sometimes brutal honesty could achieve more than the finest tact.

She was so absorbed in a cackling-madly sort of glee that she walked straight into Pansy. Which, in hindsight, was not the greatest move in the world.

~

Pansy was mad. Livid with rage. Burning with passion. Black had just broken up with her.

It was a good thing she didn't realise that what he actually said - something along the lines of 'it's not you, its me' - was far different from what he really meant i.e. 'you were, in essence, the blonde canary, and the gas, as of now, has made you keel over and DIE.' Conversely, in the manner of all women scorned everywhere, her mind performed marvellous tricks of acrobatics so that Black emerged utterly blameless.

And naturally, another scapegoat was now required.

She had heard hints and rumours, of course. And, when she told Lavender - the gossip matriarch of Oakwood Comprehensive - what had happened, those hints solidified and the rumours became definite fact.

In short, she now knew that Black was mad about Hermione Granger.

Ergo, it was all Hermione's fault. In her current state of incontinent fury, Pansy was liable to blame Hermione not only for stealing Black - which she must have done, else why would he break up with her, Pansy? - but for everything that was wrong in the world, right down to the growing, red, under-the-skin spot on her nose.

It was a _big_ spot.

She walked into the PE court to find Black staring moonily off into the foredistance. A few seconds later, she spotted Hermione huddled, for some reason, behind the equipment shed.

Bugger dignity. This was war.

~

Hermione knew for a fact that she was taller than Pansy by a good two inches. This did nothing to erase the undeniable reality that Pansy was towering over her threateningly, seeming to block out the sky.

She had a nasty feeling that this was something to do with Black.

Pansy - never a great conversationalist in any case - didn't bother with speaking. Why, when fists were so much more effective? A good right hook can speak a thousand words.

Hermione felt stunned, and not only from Pansy's sledgehammer blows, which suggested that she had been taking boxing lessons from Mohammed Ali on the sly. She had never been in a real fight before, not even the rough-and-tumble engaged in by siblings, being an only child. She managed to do little more than try to shield her face - ineffectively, as Pansy landed one square on her temple and she felt her eyeball fill with blood. The pain made her sure her eyebrow was broken, if that was possible.

Fights - in which the red haze of bloodlust can descend and wipe the mind free of all rational thought - have their own time keeping. Hermione felt as if Pansy moved in slow motion, like a badly-edited special effects film, and though she knew it was impossible, the fight seemed to last for years. Although it was more of a mugging; fighting suggests at least some participation on both sides.

Suddenly Hermione's ears - which had been filled with a rushing sound similar to being underwater - popped and were filled with a flood of voices. On top of them all she could hear Blaise's hysterical screaming, and Mr Hagrid's booming tones. Pansy was wrenched off her, but not before she got in a vicious kick to Hermione's shin, toppling her off balance and causing her to crumple like a rag doll.

She lay uncomfortably on the rough gravel, staring up at the grey sky. All at once, Blaise's worried face appeared upside-down in her line of vision.

'Are you okay?' she asked, and her voice, though loud, seemed to come from a long way away. 'Shit, we'd better get help. Sir! SIR!'

She disappeared again, and Hermione gratefully sunk into welcoming blackness. Black. Blackness....

~

Sev was so nervous about his date with Remus that he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron at half-past-four. It wasn't as pathetic as it appeared, as Sev's watch turned out to be a quarter of an hour fast - making him an hour and a quarter, not an hour and a half, early - but it was still pretty bad.

He leaned nervously against the bar. At this time of day, only serious drinkers - the ones who actually hoped not to wake up afterwards - were hunched over their pints, ignoring the exotic cocktails on offer, to the barman's obvious disgust.

Sev had dressed with care, scorning his favourite leather trousers in favour of soft cream chinos and a white shirt. The shaded purple lighting of the bar made him look sallow and almost Italian, but he felt oddly naked with out his cowskin chaps. He caught sight of himself in the mirrors, and rubbed his aquiline nose thoughtfully, pressing the lump where it had been broken as if he could smooth it back into the skin.

He had made his way down two pints of Budweiser, and an hour had painfully ticked by in a mess of nerves, when a familiar voice made him start with surprise and turn to the door. However, the door remained determinedly shut, and the clientele did not appear to have increased in number. Frowning, he turned back to the bar, where he came almost nose to nose with Marv, who was leaning his elbows on the counter from the other side.

'And what's a gorgeous lad like yourself doing in a place like this?' he laughed.

'Marv?' Sev asked, confused.

'That's my name. Don't wear it out.' He raised his eyebrows at Sev, blue eyes sparkling mischievously. 'Though you're welcome to wear out any other part of my anatomy that you take a fancy to.'

'What are you doing behind the bar?' Sev, refusing to be tempted by his blandishments.

'I own it, don't I?' Marv laughed again, a hollow, husky sound. Sev regarded the swell of his throat as he leaned his head back to survey his domain.

'And the taxi?'

Marv tilted his head. His glacial eyes bore into Sev's dark ones, and Sev's soft hair, in a sudden gust of wind, fluttered all over his face.

'I only use that to pick up impressionable young men to ruin and degenerate,' he whispered hoarsely.

Sev's eyes fluttered shut and then Marv was kissing him, running his tongue along his lower lip and drawing it gently between his own with his teeth. His hand brushed along Sev's throat, to where his hair grew just below his ear. Leaning forward further, Marv pressed his lips to Sev's hairline and Sev sighed out and opened his eyes.

Remus was standing two feet away from him. And from the expression on his face - one of hurt, anger but above all, hatred - he had been there for some time.

'Remus!' Sev gasped, pushing Marv away in horror. Bereft of balance, Marv slid down the other side of the glass-topped bar, grazing his stomach in the process. Ignoring his moans of pain, Sev stared at Remus, but Remus refused to catch his eye. He was concentrating ferociously on Marv, for some reason, and his expression was a fixed, cold one.

Marv finally straightened up, with much over-emphasised groaning and rubbing of his scraped torso. Snape, still unable to take his eyes off Remus, like a heartbroken rabbit in the beams of a suddenly detached oncoming vehicle, noticed that he bared his teeth, revealing his pointed canines. He looked remarkably like a wolf.

Startled, Sev was stirred to action, although he knew there was little he could do to atone for this. It was no use saying Marv had kissed him, even though he had. And for all he knew, Remus could be a raging homophobe. Just because Sev had decided he was in love with him - and when exactly did that happen? - it didn't automatically make Remus gay.

'Remus, this is Marv - ' he began, but the look Remus shot him - that of a wounded beast, still wild enough to fear the touch of humans - halted him dead.

'I know who he is,' Remus snarled. 'Of all the fucking people in the world, Severus!' Overcome with emotion, Sev could see Remus struggling to master what looked like a consuming rage. Abruptly, a frosty, inert mask descended over his face once more, and Remus, crossing his arms, shifted his body minutely, his body language indicating that Sev was now no longer a factor in this conversation.

'Marvolo Riddle,' he said tightly, as if he was grinding out each word individually. 'Well? What have you got to say for yourself?'

Turning to look at Marv for the first time, blinded by pain, Sev was struck by how calm he appeared. At Remus' words, he looked up from idly flicking his fingernails. The emotional battlescene before him seemed to have left him entirely unmoved.

'Hello, big brother,' he said coolly.

~

Hermione awoke and the pain - previously deferred - decided to make good its debts.

Gritting her teeth to keep from crying out, she mentally assessed the damage. Her right eye throbbed - more than the rest of her face, that is - and her vision was a little cloudy. Her stomach ached like the time she had decided she'd needed to get fit and done a hundred sit-ups in a row. (This had been, needless to say, a fairly short-lived ambition.) As she rolled to get up, a stabbing pain in her left ankle announced its presence. She got herself into a sitting position, but when she tried to stand, the pain in her foot made her gasp with pain and fall back onto her elbows.

At once someone was kneeling behind her, supporting her back, and she subsided gratefully into their arms. A worried voice said, 'Hermione? Are you alright?'

It was Black.

'Of course I'm not bloody alright!' she snapped, anger inflating her like a rising balloon. 'Your cow of a girlfriend just used me as a punching bag, remember?' She tried to yank away from him, but her anger was obscured by a tidal wave of pain.

'Bugger,' she said weakly.

Settling for the fact that she would have to remain here, uncomfortably wedged in Black's embrace, as moving either up or down was out of the question, she cast her eyes around the court, which was deserted.

'Where is everybody?' she said, then mentally cursed herself for addressing the primary cause of all her pain - both physical and, she had to admit, mental.

'It took Greg, Vinnie and Seamus to pull Pansy off you,' he said, with a ring of relish to his voice. 'Harry and Dean went along to take her to Dumbledore. Blaise and the other girls went with Hagrid to phone a doctor.'

'And they left me here alone?' Hermione asked accusingly.

'No, with me!' Black said in a hurt tone of voice.

'And they left me here alone?' Hermione repeated.

'I told them to,' Black said, and he sounded irritated now. 'I'm the only one who knows any first aid, and it's not good to crowd an injured person.'

'You mean a loser,' Hermione groaned. She felt ashamed now. She hadn't hit Pansy back or _anything_ , not even once. Black refrained from comment.

'Where does it hurt?' he asked briskly.

'Everywhere,' she grated, then at his long-suffering sigh, added grumpily, 'My eye and my left foot.'

'Okay, then, let's have a look.' He gently released her, and Hermione managed to remain in a sitting position, hiking up her good leg for balance. For a moment, Black gazed at her face, thoughtfully biting his lip. His fingers lightly caressed her cheek, below her eye, and, unable to stop herself, Hermione shivered. Despite his benevolent mad-doctor expression, the gesture was unspeakably erotic. His nearness was enough to stop her breathing, and the slight wind carried his scent in her direction. He refused to look her in the eye, however, and abruptly drew back, to sit on his heels.

'Yeah, you'll have a nice shiner there in the morning,' he said, addressing the tarmac. 'Try and get some cold steak to put on it; it'll stop the swelling.'

He stood up and walked to her foot, where he sat and took it into his lap. Hermione tried desperately not to think; at the same time, Draco was maniacally concentrating on Sellotape. He found it a great distraction in times such as these.

He removed her shoe with care, but Hermione still winced in pain. She winced in embarrassment also, at the thought of him touching her sweaty foot. He rolled down her sock by degrees, and if it wasn't so painful, Hermione would have laughed at the mixture of salaciousness and yuckiness the scene engendered. She was also acutely aware of the fact that she hadn't shaved for days. If Black moved his hands too quickly, he'd cause sparks.

Black slowly rotated her foot, causing her to howl.

'It's not broken anyway,' he said confidently.

'It felt like it,' Hermione gasped through gritted teeth.

'No, if it was broken you'd have passed out when I did that,' he said. 'It's just a nasty sprain.'

'How do you know all this?' she asked despite herself.

He shrugged and began to lightly chafe her foot, to shield it from the seeping cold. 'My aunt Andy is a nurse in the Beaumont Hospital in town,' he said, eyes fixed on his task. 'I usually stay with her in the holidays, and she taught me.'

Hermione closed her eyes and submitted to his ministrations, enjoying the feel of his warm, dry hands on her sensitive soles. Another scrap of information to file away in the slim Black folder in her brain. And she felt suddenly sad when she realised that in a few months, she'd be gone and she'd never see him again.

She even felt inclined to forgive him for his girlfriend's psychotic episode.

'What was up with Pansy, anyway?' she asked sleepily.

'You mean you don't know?' The hands stopped moving in surprise.

At that moment, Blaise's shout rent the air.

'Hermione! The doctor's here!'


	5. The Wrong Kind Of Right

_Tout arreter, termine! finis les utopies, les reves brises_

_L'coeur d'artichaut est fatigue_

_Mais jamais j'n'arret'rai de t'aimer_

(Renaud)

Seamus was a little surprised that Dean wasn't all in a tizzy for his upcoming second date with Ginny. He supposed that once the milestone first date had been struggled through, the second impression wasn't that important. He said as much to Dean, who, once he'd figured out what Seamus was talking about, laughed and said he was just going to wear what he'd worn the first time.

Seamus halted, stock-still, in the middle of the school corridor. The effect was lost on Dean, who'd continued walking, and the jostlings of irritated people eventually convinced Seamus to move on. He caught up with Dean, panting slightly. Dean gave him a quizzical look.

'Dean, you cannot wear the same clothes twice running!' he panted in despair. 'She'll think you don't _wash_!'

'Why?' Dean asked, and Seamus realised to his horror that Dean was actually sincere.

'Because, you daft pogo-stick, she'll see you in the exact same clothes!'

'Yes, but you see me in the same clothes all the time, and you know I wash,' said Dean equably, with unshakeable logic.

'Yes, I do. I also go round your house nearly every day, occasionally seeing your washing machine, I know you have a wardrobe of more than one outfit and most importantly,' Seamus steeled himself for the lie, 'I don't look on you as a potential sexual partner, as Ginny does!'

'Does she?' Dean asked in excitement.

Seamus rolled his eyes, somewhat relived, however, that Dean had not picked up on the false note in his voice. ' _Potentially_ , yes. That's the point. Your mum, for example, sees you in the same clothes, and as she lives with you she has no worries that she's brought up an unhygienic son. Ginny doesn't, so she also doesn't know if you wash either yourself or your clothes. Obviously she assumes that you do, but you have to prove it to her. Ergo, you must wear another outfit. And not a tracksuit, before you even _ask_.'

'This dating business seems to be a whole load of work,' Dean said, disgruntled. 'How come I can't just wear what I usually do?'

'Funnily enough, girls ask themselves the same question all the time,' Seamus said conversationally. 'And the honest to God answer is, you can - when you've been married to her for thirty years, have possibly seen up her uterus while she gives birth to your kids and are set to grow old and dribbly together in some clapped-out retirement home. Then, and only then, can you stop trying to impress. In other words, when it's too late.'

'You know, I've just realised why you're such a great friend,' said Dean dryly. 'You have such a wonderfully positive outlook on life. It's so inspiring.'

'Well, you know what they say,' Seamus replied airily. 'Optimism begins in a broad grin, and pessimism ends in blue spectacles. I've always said glasses would suit me, don't you agree?'

'Yes, as long as they're on someone else's face,' Dean agreed.

'Oh, witty! We shall make a cynic of you yet, my dear.' Seamus leered at him. 'If marriage doesn't do my job for me, that is.'

'Stop!' Dean complained. 'I haven't even got to third base and you're scaring me off. All this talk of getting married.'

'Haha, rather you than me,' Seamus said unsympathetically.

After a while, during which Dean appeared to be thinking hard (you could always tell by the little wrinkle between his eyebrows, which of course Seamus never looked at when Dean wasn't paying attention), he spoke.

'Marriage or third base?'

~

Overnight, Hermione's eye had swelled to the size of a duck egg, but unfortunately not as attractive a colour. Various bruises and scratches on her face and body were aching as her body began to heal, and her foot - taped up in bandages and a heat pack - was burning to the touch. Her mother had been shocked at her appearance, and had wanted to sue Pansy for damages. By morning, after a sleepless night of torture, Hermione found herself becoming more and more amenable to the idea.

Her mother took one look at her, a plate of toast and eggs in her hands, and pronounced her completely unfit for school. For once, Hermione didn't protest. Even leaving aside the considerable pain she was in, she had a lot to think about. She sent a text message to Blaise, to tell her she wasn't coming in, and asking her if she had any idea what reason Pansy had for attacking her. It didn't deliver, however; clearly Blaise kept her phone off during school.

She lay back on her pillows, freshly plumped by her mother before she left for work, and let sleep claim her.

~

Sev was in a state of shock. His lover and the man he was in love with had turned out to be brothers. It was more than a little squicky.

He wandered around his apartment, a cup of bitter coffee clutched in one hand, and considered phoning in sick. He certainly felt sick at heart. Marv had spoken little more after his first three words, making no pretence of having a real excuse for leaving quickly. Sev envied him. He endured an uncomfortable silence with Lupin for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes in reality, before Lupin had mumbled something and left also. By then, Sev couldn't even summon up the energy to drink himself into oblivion. He had walked home in a daze, getting caught in a spring shower and ruining his trousers. He couldn't be bothered to care.

He decided that, unpleasant though the thought was, he needed to talk to Lupin. He needed to clear the air. So many things were uncertain - was Lupin gay? In what exact reference frame could Remus Lupin and Marvolo Riddle - hell, he hadn't even known the guy's full name before he went and messed up his life - be termed brothers?

Even in his confused, weary state of mind, he knew which question bothered him most.

~

Blaise sat in class, humming quietly to herself. It was clear by break-time that Hermione wasn't in, although Blaise didn't have her phone with her to confirm. She was sitting on her own in English, looking at the back of Black's head, which was bowed. She couldn't feel angry at him for causing her best friend to be beaten up - by this stage she had heard from Lavender that he had broken up with Pansy. It was painfully evident that he was missing Hermione, and after all his relationship with Pansy was over now. The path of true love never did run smooth, and all that. In this case, it had taken a detour into outer space smack-bang into a couple of asteroids.

Speaking of love...Blaise glanced around the room. Ron was sitting at a desk at the back, giggling at nothing. Pushing herself off of her chair, she stalked over to him.

'Where's Harry?' she asked, feeling a tentative right to ask. They had shared headphones, after all.

Ron didn't reply, so she repeated her question, louder, and Ron deigned to look at her. She was startled by his empty looking eyes. Of course she'd known he was on drugs - she knew _everything_ \- but she'd had no occasion to see him up close before. She was shocked by his sunken, pale features, and made a worried face.

'Harry, man?' Ron said slowly, as if dredging up each word from a long-obsolete memory bank. 'Is he, like, one of my brothers?'

Blaise curled her lip at him and returned to her seat, pondering all the while what on earth to do about him. Twelve steps was about all she could think of, and she'd only seen _that_ in Clueless.

Lavender stopped in front of her, eyes alight with new gossip. Nothing made Lavender come alive like passing on scurrilous rumours that had been confided to her in strictest confidence.

'Guess what?' she said in what she clearly thought was a whisper.

'You're a fool and I'm not,' Blaise said, seriously.

'No, silly!' Lavender batted her on the arm while Blaise gave her an incredulous look. 'Did you hear?' She didn't wait for an answer but ploughed on regardless. 'Apparently, a couple of weeks ago Pansy overheard some girls in the bathroom saying that Hermione Granger is in love with Black! Then he broke up with her, and she was so mad, that's why she beat her up! Can you believe it? I was right all along!' She sighed mistily. 'It's _so_ romantic!'

'What, getting beaten to a bloody pulp?' Blaise shook her head. 'I never had you down as that kinky, Lavender.' But Lavender had moved on, to spread the word far and wide, whether anyone was interested in it or not.

But Blaise was interested. She realised with a sinking heart that the girls Pansy had overheard had been Hermione - and herself. She had given Hermione the rope to hang herself. Hermione was not going to forgive her for this. She grimaced and slumped down in her seat.

At that point, Harry entered, seconds in front of Miss McGonagall who, Blaise noticed, was looking very spruced up all of a sudden. She'd have to investigate that.

However, all thoughts of her teacher disappeared from her head as Harry shyly approached her desk, hesitated, then sat down beside her. Then, Blaise was hard-pressed to keep a grin from spreading all over her face.

~

Draco was feeling both incredibly worried and extremely guilty as he sat through McGonagall's class, passing the time by drawing idly on a copy. Hermione's injuries, although far from life-threatening, were still pretty deleterious. In addition, he had been the unwitting cause of them. And he thought he'd let Pansy down gently, considering what he could have said. He wasn't worried about being her next victim; he held a black belt in Tai Kwon Do. That was probably why she hadn't come after him. The only puzzling thing about the whole situation was why she had gone after _Hermione_. It wasn't as if he had _told_ Pansy he'd been using her to make Hermione jealous; he wasn't that stupid, or unfeeling. Perhaps she'd made the connection on her own.

And that was worrying, because if Pansy - who'd have a hard time reading if someone cut off her finger - could figure out that he was in love and all other soppy things with Granger, then anyone could. And the whole world would be party to her rejection of him. Wonderful.

He was missing Hermione, but there was another edge to it too, namely that he was concerned over her welfare. This was a bit different from the squirmy feelings of lust she generated (well, that the _thoughts_ of her generated) or the thrill he got from winding her up. It was involved; it was caring. It was bloody scary.

It was the nagging feeling of obligation combined with the genuine desire to see her that spurred him on to asking Blaise where she lived.

'Why, so you can throw petrol over her house and set fire to it?' she said, but there was a noticable lack of bite in her voice. Draco noticed Harry hovering nearby, but as usual dismissed him. It never occurred to him to connect Harry's presence with Blaise's unusual good humour. 'Don't you think you and your cronies have done enough damage, Black?'

'I'm sorry about that,' Draco said humbly. 'Jesus, if I'd known Pansy was going to go batshit I would have - '

'Handled the situation a bit more delicately?' Blaise suggested.

Draco paused. 'I was going to say I would have given Hermione a big stick,' he admitted. 'But your idea has merit. In theory anyway.' He wasn't going to go into the details of his recent break-up with Blaise.

Blaise seemed to be sizing him up. Draco wondered nervously if he was going to be found wanting.

'It's twenty-one Magnolia Cresent,' she said at last, and he breathed a sigh of relief. 'The house with the green door.'

~

Seamus decided that Dean needed to be taken shopping rather urgently. This was convenient, as Seamus also required some new clothes. Unfortunately, Dean didn't see it that way. He treated the whole expedition as one step down from getting teeth pulled. He only shut up when Seamus promised that they could go to Virgin Megastores afterwards and jointly buy the extended version of the Return of the King on DVD.

He nearly had to drag Dean by the arm to get him into Topman, as Dean was convinced it was a girl's shop. Seamus smiled apologetically at some mothers with prams, who were looking at him in consternation.

'Yes, he's at that age,' he confided to them. 'Terrible, isn't it?'

Then Dean had the temerity to hiss that _Seamus_ was embarrassing _him_.

'Actually you're making a fine job of it on your own,' Seamus said coolly, and, while Dean concentrated on opening his mouth to reply, pushed him inside.

Dean adamantly refused to buy anything from a 'boutique', as he called it. Seamus, however, made several successful purchases, which even Dean agreed looked decent on. It didn't sway him at all towards choosing something for himself, though.

Seamus saw Dean looking with longing at the Champion Sports across the street, and walloped him on the arm. Complaining proved to be enough of a distraction to get him into a jeans warehouse to purchase some half-decent trousers. The lack of pink and any frills whatsoever appeared to be of great comfort to Dean, who immediately chose an armful of pairs to try on. Seamus had a short but vicious battle with him to make pick another armful that were not so utterly hideous. In the end Dean bought three pairs, and Seamus had talked himself dry to ensure they were ones that actually looked good on him.

He relented and let Dean into Champion Sports, but refused to let him buy anything, despite his pleading expressions and pouts. However, when he saw the rugby jerseys, he was immediately interested. They actually seemed to be made to fit, unlike Dean's football ones. Or perhaps he bought those too big.

'Here, try these on.' He shoved half a dozen into Dean's arms.

'But I don't follow rugby!' Dean said in amazement, sifting through the jerseys, which included ones from France, Australia, Munster and South Africa.

Seamus rolled his eyes. 'And what has that got to do with it?'

By four o'clock he was completely exhausted. He sat in the booth of a coffee bar with Dean, who had tossed his clothes bags unconcernedly to one side and was exclaiming over his - their - new DVD. Seamus half-listened, almost asleep.

'Hey, I want to thank you,' Dean said awkwardly. 'For all this - you know, for helping me and stuff.'

Seamus looked at him silently for a moment. Dean squirmed a little.

'You know what they say,' Seamus shrugged. 'Teach a man to fish, you teach him for a lifetime. You're meant to take all this on board for future reference.'

'Yeah, well, cheers. You're a great mate, you know,' Dean said earnestly.

'Wow, thanks,' Seamus said ironically, and turned his head away. 'I'll treasure that,' he whispered, almost under his breath.

~

The ringing of the doorbell startled Hermione out of a half-doze under her comfy mound of bedclothes. Wearily, she struggled out of bed and wrapped an old, bald bathrobe around her favourite yellow pyjamas. Once she had made it into the tiled hallway, after clinging onto banisters and various walls for support, she was cursing her lack of foresight for not wearing slippers. If she looked down, she was half-certain she'd find her feet encased in mini ice-blocks.

Shoving back her tangled hair, she opened the door into Black's face. She stared at him, mouth open, for a second, before determinedly shutting it again.

'Hermione!' she heard his injured voice from the other side of the door. 'Open up!'

'What are you doing here?' she yelled back, tightening her robe around herself, even though he couldn't see her through the solid door.

'I - I can't talk through a door!' he said in a loud and, she thought, cross voice.

'On the contrary, that's exactly what you are doing!' she retorted.

'What?'

Annoyed, Hermione opened the door again. One couldn't have a proper skirmish of words when one of the combatants was pretending to be deaf.

Black was standing on the doorstep wearing an obstinate expression, and what passed for the school uniform in his world. That is, dark blue jeans, Adidas runners, the school shirt and tie - untie, in fact - and a black sports jacket. With his haughty, aristocratic features and eyebrow piercing, it made for an incongruous image, and Hermione found herself suppressing an unwonted urge to giggle.

'Did you get put on detention today?' she asked curiously.

Black looked at her as if she'd sprouted another head. 'What? No.'

'Oh.' She hung onto the door handle for support, favouring her good leg. 'It's a nice day, isn't it?' She swung forward to look up into the lowering sky, which was leaden and filled with ominous black clouds. The outside air was freezing.

Black looked uneasy now. The head had clearly been joined by fangs dripping with blood and gore. 'Yeah,' he said carefully, in the tones of someone who is anxious not to upset the balance of a person who was so clearly dancing too close to the edge.

Hermione leaned forward further. 'Gosh, I didn't know we had hanging baskets!' she exclaimed.

'Um, Hermione, did they give you any, like, painkillers?' Black asked cautiously.

'Only a few,' Hermione said with dignity, and suddenly lost her grip on the door. Shocked into putting her injured foot on the ground, she howled in pain and fumbled for equipoise. Black jumped forward and grabbed her bodily before she could fall.

Hermione found herself face squashed uncomfortably somewhere in the region of Black's neck while his hands clutched her robe, dragging her clothing in all directions. She could feel the collar of her pyjama top choking her, while it's hem was skirting the bottom of her ribcage and allowing a broad expanse of her tender stomach to scrape painfully against the rough fabric of his jacket.

'Are you okay?' he said, and she could feel his vocal chords moving against her cheek.

'Absolutely!' she squeaked hastily, and he released her, backing away and staring down at his shoes. She took the opportunity to yank down her pyjama top to decency and re-knot the cord of her robe.

'Well...did you want to come in?' she asked. Too late she realised that catching her had meant that he had already crossed the threshold. 'Em - well, shut the door then. Do you want some tea?'

'Have you got any Coke?' he asked hopefully.

''Fraid not. My parents are dentists. No fizzy drinks, no chewy sweets.'

Black looked horrified. 'You poor deprived child!'

Hermione stared at him, decided he was for real, and shook her head. 'We do have orange juice. Or ice cream.'

'Ice cream isn't a beverage,' he objected.

'What about ice cream floats?' she retorted. 'The kitchen is this way.' She began to hobble in the direction she'd indicated.

Black strode forward. 'Here, hold onto my arm,' he commanded. Even though it was humiliating, she acquiesced, because trying to get support out of a dodo rail was more difficult than it looked. 'And ice cream floats are just ice cream having an identity crisis.'

'Well, you don't have to have any,' she said wearily, clutching his arm, which had all sorts of interesting contours under the sleeve of his jacket.

'Who says I'm not having any?' he objected. And grinned, a little.

~

Sev finally caught up with Lupin when he was unlatching his bike from the school bicycle rail. If Sev didn't know better, he'd have thought that Lupin was avoiding him. Hell, he did know better, and Lupin was avoiding him. But he'd be damned if he'd let him away with it.

He put a restraining hand on the handlebar. 'Lupin, we need to talk.'

'About what?'

Well, at least he had replied. But his voice, for all its courtesy, was icy-cold and formal. It was not a voice that suggested the hearer should hang around for cocoa and marshmallows. Nevertheless, Sev persisted.

'About last night. I wanted to explain.'

'You don't need to.' Still Lupin wouldn't look him in the eye. 'It is quite obvious that you in some sort of - relationship with my dissipated brother. Far be it from me to stand in your way.'

'Its not like that, Lupin,' Sev said, frustrated.

'Then what is it like, Snape?' Lupin was looking out on the road, his voice calm and steady and absolutely infuriating. 'I walk in to find you snogging the face off him. In my book that constitutes some sort of attachment. Unless you are in the habit of passionately kissing strangers?' His voice dripped with sarcasm at this last.

'No, I'm not,' Sev said desperately. 'But I'm not - bloody hell, I'm not going out with him! It was just a one-night stand.'

'How nice,' Lupin said distantly, and Sev realised how stupid, in the face of evidence, his last statement sounded. 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go now.'

Sev stood staring at him, clutching the handlebars tightly. Lupin was looking down at his hands now, the tough gelled spikes of his hair hovering just under Sev's nose.

'Could you please take your hands off my bike?' Lupin asked coldly. Stunned, Sev snatched his hands away as if burned.

Which of course he was.

~

 

Once she had got rid of Black, Blaise gathered up her books and turned her attention to Harry, who was lingering in the classroom. They were the only two left, aside from McGonagall, who was organising her papers.

'Well, I have to go to my locker,' Blaise began uncertainly.

'I'll come with you,' Harry said eagerly.

They walked in companionable silence, careful to hold their books at the opposite side of their bodies to the other person. Every so often, their free hands would tangle together, and they would look and smile at each other, and disengage them.

Blaise hurriedly tossed her books into her weatherworn satchel while Harry waited patiently. For some reason, it seemed to take her twice as long than normal; things kept slipping out of her grasp, and it seemed that every book she needed was buried at the bottom of her locker. At last everything was in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Then her pencilcase fell.

'Oh, for the love of Pete!' Blaise said loudly. Before she could move, Harry had bent and retrieved it.

'Don't stress out,' he said, handing it to her and smiling. Blaise stood still for a moment, transfixed by it. She loved his smile. It was hesitant, and never lasted long enough; it was rather crooked, and bent in the middle; his teeth were small, uneven, and glowed in the dull lighting.

'Yes, I should take lessons from Ron,' she said, and immediately wished she could bite her tongue out. Harry's happy countenance disappeared, and his face darkened. Blaise was struck by how sad and helpless he looked.

'He could teach you a lot,' he said bitterly. 'He could teach you an awful lot.' He turned away, his shoulders compressed, as if he was curving in on himself.

Blaise felt an unfamiliar stab of panic. 'Wait!' she said, and reached out to touch his retreating back. He paused, his body taut, as if expecting a blow. Blaise frowned at that. He faced her again, dark brows drawn together like advancing armies.

'I'm sorry,' she said, wincing. 'I shouldn't have said that. It was thoughtless.'

'No,' Harry corrected her. 'It's true.' But a lot of the tension had drained out of him. Blaise suddenly wanted to hug him, just for the comfort of putting her arms around him, assuring him that he wouldn't break. But he wouldn't welcome that.

'I don't know what to do!' he blurted, in a raw, agonizing burst of honesty. 'I don't know how to help him.'

'Harry. You can't help him.' Blaise lightly squeezed him arm, and tilted her head to look into his bowed face. 'Harry. He has to want to help himself.'

'There must be something I can do,' he whispered despairingly.

'You can tell him. We can find out about - I don't know. Places he could go to. Narcotics Anonymous. There is such a thing. We can do all that. But in the end, it has to come from him.'

'We?' Words bubbled on Harry's lips, but he could not form them.

'Of course,' said Blaise, astonished. 'You don't think I was going to let you go through this on your own, did you?'

'But, why?' Harry struggled to express himself. 'What's in it for you? Shit, no, I didn't mean to say that!'

Blaise snickered. Harry, relieved that she wasn't offended, made a questioning face.

'Well, there is the fact that I'm an interfering busybody,' she said thoughtfully, hefting her bag onto her shoulder. 'Lead the way to your locker. I tell you, Lavender has nothing on me. Plus, I do like helping people. Our class, this school, this neighbourhood - they're my people. I don't want to see them lost.'

They were walking down the hall now. It was almost deserted, and a lot of the lights were turned off.

'And, well, mainly, I like you,' Blaise continued. 'I knew that, like a typical man, you couldn't admit when you need help, so I'm giving it whether you like it or not.'

She smiled warily at him and was rewarded with a rare half smile in return.

She really wished she could hug him, right now.

~

Hermione and Black sat side by side at her scrubbed pine kitchen table, eating out of the same family sized tub of chocolate Haagen-Daas. Draco noted that her kitchen - in which pine was the predominant feature - was a lot different from his own. For one thing, it actually looked used. Narcissa, for all her artful posturing with legumes, ordered in (expensive) takeaway more often than not.

Struck by the thought, he asked, around a mouthful of ice-cream, 'Can you cook, Hermione?'

'Toast,' Hermione said, startled. 'And I can burn spaghetti, if that counts.'

'Oh.'

They chewed - or rather sucked and slurped, this being ice cream - in silence for a few minutes. At last Draco laid down his spoon.

'I wanted to come round here to see if you were okay,' he said seriously.

'I feel like I've gone three rounds with Lennox Lewis, why?' Hermione said, digging into the tub again. 'Oh, and I look it, too.'

Draco grimaced. 'That doesn't make me feel better.'

'What has it got to do with you?' Hermione shrugged. 'Pansy beat me up. She's a lunatic. End of story.'

'No, that's not quite it,' Draco said slowly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. 'So it does have something to do with you? Go on then, tell me. Meanwhile I'll tot up the number of your bones I'll grind to make my bread. Or maybe just stick in my ice-cream maker.'

'You have an ice-cream maker?' Draco asked with interest.

'Yes. Don't change the subject.'

Draco squirmed in his seat, picked up his spoon and began twirling it like a baton. 'Well, you see, I broke up with her.'

'Oh.' Hermione concentrated hard not to show any flicker of emotion. It wasn't helped by the fact that Black was studying her as if she was an newly unearthed Caravaggio.

'Yes, I think that may have something to do with it, anyway.'

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why would you breaking up with her cause her to try and break my nose?' Hermione asked patiently.

Black widened his eyes at her. 'Do I have to spell it out for you?'

Hermione looked into his large grey orbs, incongruously fringed by long sooty lashes -come to think of it his brows were dark as well - gulped, and lost her nerve.

'Oh, whatever.' She shrugged and looked away, focusing on the opposite wall where one of her early watercolours was hung.

'Did you do that?' Draco asked, following her line of vision.

'Oh, yeah. It's awful, isn't it? I went through this stage of wanting to be Van Gogh, but I gave up before I reached the oils stage,' she said reminiscently.

'Do you like Van Gogh then?' Black asked keenly.

'Oh, yes. He's my favourite post-Impressionist. I would say he's my favourite artist, but I love Matisse as well.'

'Really? The Fauves' work is good, but I like Pop Art better than anything before the wars. That stuff isn't cynical enough for me. Of course, all Minimalists should be killed slowly over several days.'

'I didn't know you were into art!' she said in surprise.

'I'm a dabbler, only,' he said, stretching back in his chair and laughing. 'And Picasso is my god.'

'That figures,' Hermione said wryly. 'Have you ever seen any of his work for real?'

'Yeah - I was in Spain three years ago with my mum. She wanted to sunbathe -' he wrinkled his nose '- but I dragged her into the Prado. Guernica - I mean. There are no words. Or too many.'

'Wow.' Hermione's eyes were round and envious. 'I'd love to see it.'

'Everyone should. Even after all these years, it's still poignant. That's why I did history, I guess - I wanted to learn about the Spanish Civil War, see what exactly it was that could provoke such - a masterpiece, among other things.'

'That's almost admirable,' she said in approval. 'Do you know, Draco, I'm starting to think you have hidden depths.'

He made no response to her left-handed compliment, and when she turned to look him full in the face, slightly, surprised, she found his expression was frozen in shock.

'What did you just call me?' he whispered.

'Dr - oh.' She hadn't even been aware of it. It had just slipped out. But she'd assumed it was his name; it stood to reason. He couldn't just be called Black.

'How?' The word was bitten off and Hermione trembled at the rage suffusing his features.

'I heard Binns...' her voice trailed off uncertainly. 'I only guessed - no one else heard.'

At her last comment he visibly relaxed. 'Only you?'

'I'm fairly certain.'

'Oh, that's okay. Means I only have to kill you then, and hide the evidence. In your ice-cream maker, possibly.'

The odd tension broken, Hermione set to digging in her ice cream with renewed vigour. 'And Binns, of course.'

~

Minnie's heart was all of a flutter as she dressed for her first tutorial with Gil. She chose her outfit with care, settling on a new lavender turtleneck and smart but casual navy slacks.

She arrived to a small, Spartan room smelling of fresh paint and, inexplicably, lilac, decorated in a unobtrusive fashion - all tortured metal and white ash. About eight people, varying in age from early twenties to sixtyish, were seated uncomfortably on the ultra-stylish chairs, trying to make small-talk. Minnie settled herself fussily beside a man who looked about her age or older.

'Mundungus,' he said, extending a hairy hand and blasting her with whiskey fumes.

'Minerva,' she said with equal curtness, removing her hand from his grasp as soon as was politely possible.

She was saved from further communication with the wino by the bouncing arrival of Gil himself, wearing a white polo shirt and ironed jeans, and wafting a strong scent of Paco Rabanne into the room, which at least killed the smell of flowers. To prevent any of the others from seeing the foolish smile she couldn't hold back, she dropped her head and fiddled with her pens.

'Well, I see we're all here,' Gil said, rubbing his hands together and grinning his Colgate smile. 'So I think we'll do a spot of introductions, eh? For those of you who don't already know, I'm Gil, your lecturer, tutor, and all-around good guy.' He paused and winked at a pink-haired woman with a pin through her nose. She started back stonily. 'Or at least, that's what it says on the tin. So we'll start on my right. Just say your names, that should be easiest.'

'Minerva,' Minnie said, in her 'teacher' voice.

'Mundungus,' the man beside her growled.

'Dora,' the pink-haired woman said with a sneer.

'Dedalus,' said the oldest man, whose tufts of white hair protruded from underneath his green top hat. He appeared blissfully unaware of the fact that he looked like most people's worst idea of a leprechaun.

'Dolores,' simpered a small, squat woman who looked remarkably like a toad. She had to be in her late thirties at least, but she was wearing an Alice band with a bow on it. Minnie wrinkled her nose in distaste.

'Cornelius,' said a short man dressed in a too-tight suit. He tipped a wink in Dolores' direction, and she giggled girlishly.

'Gideon,' said a man with a bored expression, and the easy grace of a relaxed tiger.

'Well, that seems to be about all,' Gil said, smacking his hands together in delight. 'And just let me take this opportunity to welcome you to this Eng. Lit. Master's programme. I hope you'll all have an interesting and learning-filled two years!'

Minnie gazed up at him mistily. Most of the others simply nodded, and started getting out writing materials. Dora's scowl only deepened, so that it appeared to be etched into her face Ten-Commandments style, and Gideon looked at him wonderingly, as if he were an escaped hippopotamus that was peacefully chewing his front lawn.

Gil had brought a projector and was putting up slides covered in his large, swirly handwriting. Uncapping her pen, Minnie began to take it down word for word.

Gideon, who was sitting across from her, shook his biro helplessly, and leaned across the table.

'Minnie, isn't it?' he said. 'May I take one of these?' He reached over and picked up one of her small mountain of Bics.

'Of course,' Minnie said, more than a little affronted at his audacity, but not caring enough to reprimand him. From then on, her attention was firmly focused on Gil and his lecture, and she forgot all about her lost biro.

~

Draco insisted on helping Hermione up to bed. By, basically, holding her around the waist and hauling her upwards.

'Just mind you don't hit your foot off anything,' he said with a frown, while she gripped his shoulders and shut her eyes and tried to reduce her waist size by holding her breath.

The journey up the stairs had never taken so long before.

Once they had reached the top of the stairs, he stood back a little, allowing her to get her balance. One warm arm was still hooked around her waist, fingers of one hand digging ever so slightly into her hipbone. Feeling suddenly discomposed, she pushed his arm away and began a one-legged sprint to her bedroom. Draco easily kept pace with her, smiling slightly.

She pushed open her door to a blaze of late-afternoon sunlight. Shielding her eyes, she advanced cautiously, almost tripping over the tray her mother had left that morning. Grabbing for the blind, she tugged violently at it, plunging the room into sudden shadow that left her blinking red spots from in front of her eyes.

She recoiled at the state of her room. The covers of her Garfield-adorned bedspread were tossed from when she had made her hurried exit, revealing the white sheets like a gaping mouth. At her desk, the canary-coloured lamp was adrift in an ocean of papers, books and folders, with a few odd pens sticking up like drowning sailors. Here and there a yellow Post-it waved like a flag. The wooden floor was almost invisible under a tide of debris, in the form of splayed books, books and more books that refused to fit onto her stuffed bookshelf, as well as papers, clothes and odds and ends.

Yes, it looked oddly neat, she thought with a frown. Clearly, her mother had been sneaking in here to clean again.

'Nice place you've got here,' Draco said, without a trace of irony. This was achievable, despite the fact that his feet had vanished under a neap tide of scrunched papers, because his was one of the few bedrooms - aside from Hermione's - that would have looked tidier after being hit by a hurricane.

He looked around at the bright yellow walls. Above the bed there was a huge print of 'Sunflowers', and in the space between the bookshelves and wardrobe hung Klimt's 'The Kiss', which glimmered in the rays of sun that had managed to sneak in under the drawn blinds.

'Did you decorate the room to match the prints, or the other way around?' he asked teasingly.

'A bit of both,' Hermione said, tossing back her bed covers so that the bed was to made what mud is to Ming pottery. 'I love yellow.'

She hefted herself onto the bed, smoothing it out underneath herself to remove the annoying bumps. Draco plumped down beside her, crossing his legs to keep his shoes off the covers, and jammed his hands behind his head. Hermione tilted sideways a little to avoid his elbow.

'When did you get the Kiss?' he asked.

'Oh, about five years ago. Why?'

'Have you ever seen any of his other work?'

'A little, in books.' Hermione grabbed a pillow and stuck it behind her head. She threw another one at Draco's stomach, and he did the same.

'It's quite erotic, isn't it?'

'Yes. Do you always speak in questions? And are you saying I'm not allowed to have an erotic print in my room?'

'No,' Draco said scathingly. 'To both questions. I was just making conversation.'

'Try something else then. Like hand-knitted jumpers.' Hermione shoved the pillow down with a fist and burrowed into it, lying stretched flat, away from Draco. 'You'd look very fetching in one. Like Lupin on a bad day.'

'He has a tattoo.'

'Really? That's surprising. It doesn't exactly go with his image, does it?'

'Just because he wears Arrans doesn't mean he can't decorate his body with ink pictures,' Draco said reprovingly. 'That's stereotyping, that is.'

'Of course he can,' Hermione yawned. She was too tired to get into a debate with him now. 'Why don't you like your name?'

'I do,' he said defensively. 'Black is a great name. Dangerous. Sexy.'

'Keep dreaming,' she laughed. 'No, I meant, D - your given name.'

'It's stupid,' he sighed.

'Tell me anyway,' she encouraged.

'That's the reason! The name is stupid. Draco. It's Latin for Dragon. Trust my dad.'

'What's he called, then?'

Draco paused. 'Lucius.'

'Oh.' Hermione stifled a snigger in her pillow. 'But - your piercings.' She rolled over and found herself looking up his nostrils, which were commendably pink and hairless. Too lazy to sit up, she grabbed his collar and pulled him closer.

'Yeah,' she murmured, creasing her forehead. His eyebrow bar was in the shape of a dragon.

He was looking at her with fearful concern. She was ready to bet that he wanted to say something along the lines of 'You've lost it.' She felt like she had. For all her outward calm, the strangeness of him and his whole body and his closeness, of his face so near to hers, of seeing the blackheads where his eyebrows met, was doing odd things to the menagerie of butterflies that had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach.

'Open your mouth,' she ordered, and, making a confused face, he complied. Peering closer, assaulted by the strong scent of mint Wrigleys, she determined that the other stud was the same. Pushing his jaw closed for him, she quickly lay back down.

'You, um - I mean, you have dragons,' she said, suddenly flustered. He was still hanging over her, strands of blonde hair tickling his ridged cheekbone. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her top lip.

'Yeah,' he said, moving off to lie on his back once more. 'And a dragon tattoo. So yeah, I like the whole dragon thing, but I do not want people to call me Draco. Okay?'

'Received and understood,' Hermione said, pretending to salute. 'Though if I had such a cool name, I wouldn't hide it,' she added, in a loud whisper.

Draco pretended no to hear her; he was staring up at the print once more.

'It's not that erotic,' she objected, looking at it too.

'On the contrary, what's more erotic than a kiss?' he bantered.

'I could think of a few things,' she said dryly.

'No, that's just sex,' he said, with iron-clad certainty.

Hermione rolled her eyes. He was so self-assured, she could just...sleep.

A few moments later, Draco looked down into her relaxed face, and watched her deep gentle breathing for a while.

Before he left, he tucked the covers around her. And washed up the ice-cream bowls in the sink.

~

Sev ended up in the Leaky Cauldron again. Soon, he decided moodily, the alcoholics would be hailing him as an old friend. So he might as well live up to the reputation by getting as rat-arsed as he should have done last night.

He ordered tequila, because, although he rarely drank spirits, he knew they had a more immediate and long-lasting effect on him than beer. That was the reason he usually avoided them like the plague - even the smell of vodka made him heady. But tonight was _special_.

Sev was licking the salt off his third glass when Marv walked in. He paused at the door, eyes surveying the room, and they widened a little when he saw Sev slumped over the bar wearing the philosophical expression of the truly drunk. He was still dressed in what he had worn to school that morning, and he hadn't exactly been in much of a state to pay attention to his outfit. It consisted of elderly jeans with one pocket torn off and an interesting pattern of Tippex stains, loafers and a hideous, dust-covered blue jumper with nothing underneath. It was testament to his inherent appeal that he managed to fall short of looking profoundly revolting.

'Give me two of whatever he's having,' Marv ordered the barman, and rested his arms on the counter along from Sev.

Sev looked up, squinting slightly, as if the soft halogen lights were burning his eyes. 'Oh, s'you,' he slurred. He held up a hand, finger pointed, which wavered slightly. 'Lu-Lupin's brozzer.' He started to giggle foolishly, his head dropping into the crook of his arm so that his dark hair - clean of gel - flopped all over his jumper and into his eyes.

Marv said nothing, only took the glasses proffered by the barman and scooted onto a barstool next to Sev. 'Here,' he said, holding one out for Sev.

Sev snatched the glass and downed the contents in one go, splashing his cheeks with liquid, and shuddered slightly as the alcohol burned down his oesophagus. Marv watched, mesmerised.

'I've never seen anyone drink that fast, and I'm me,' he remarked. Sev reached for the second glass, but Marv grabbed his hand.

'I think you've had enough,' he said, and added, 'Besides, this one's mine.' He picked up the glass and drank it off in three swift gulps, while Sev watched with the expression of a baby seeing his lolly going down the gullet of the big mean robber guy.

'Put it on my tab, Tom,' he said to the barman, and hefted Sev to his feet. He lolled bonelessly. 'Come on, sunshine.'

Marv hailed a cab and shoved Sev into it. He gave the driver - a mate, as it turned out - the directions to his house.

'Who's this one, then?' the cabbie - a fat, balding man wearing a Liverpool strip - chuckled. 'He's pretty, although it's a shame about the nose. Peter won't like it at all.'

'Fuck Peter,' Marv said succinctly. 'Drive on, Phineas.'

~

Gideon caught up with Minnie as she was walking swiftly down the corridor, hoping to catch up with Gil. To Cornelius' obvious disgust, Dolores had waylaid Gil with a breathy request to be shown the way to the libraries, which were clearly marked on the map of the campus each of them had received. Minne was planning to casually loiter around in the reception area until he passed by.

Someone rudely tapping her on the shoulder halted her. 'What?' she snapped, spinning around to find the man who had borrowed her pen - Fabian, was it? - standing louchely in front of her, eyes half-lidded. He was extremely tall and thin, like a lath, with a shock of dark red curls and a stripe of freckles across his nose. Minnie thought he looked incredibly ugly.

'Your pen,' he said briefly, and turned on his heel to walk away.

Minnie stared at the biro that he had pressed into her palm, then at his retreating back, with it's sharply-outlined shoulder blades tucked away like wings.

'Thanks,' she mouthed, and felt the urge to do something childish and naughty, like stick out her tongue at him or give him the finger. Heroically resisting the impulse, she stalked away, walking very maturely. Totally adult.

She could have sworn she felt his eyes on her as she clip-clopped down the parquet flooring, but when she dared a glance over her shoulder, he was gone.

Shrugging mentally, and frowning for no identifiable reason, Minnie continued on towards the reception. It took her a minute to remember why she was going there in the first place.

 

~

Sev risked opening an eye, and discovered that his brain's urgent messages to the effect of not attempting that under any circumstances had been, in fact, spot on.

He felt like all the salt in the tequila had washed up to form a crusty rim on his eyelids, similar to a high-tide line on a beach.

But after all, it wasn't so bad. It just felt like someone had hit a gong the size of the universe with the hammer of the gods, and he was at the point where he could feel nothing but the ringing in his ears and a faint tremor all the way through his body. Perhaps if he didn't move, at all, for the next, oh, say thirty years, he could avoid the pain altogether. Sure, he'd miss out on a few other, slightly important things, like living, but he was prepared to do the deal at that moment.

'I was wondering if you'd died,' a voice said conversationally. It did not seem to be in any way grieved by the thought, and Sev wondered if it was an angel and the reason for the blessed numbness was that he was, as it were, dead.

The prospect didn't seem so terrible.

Marv's narrow, planed face came into vision, making Sev hastily revise his earlier ideas. If Marv was an angel, there was no hope for heaven.

'Are you going to speak?' Marv asked levelly.

Sev experimentally tried moving his vocal chords. There was a slight change in the tone of the engulfing ringing noise, but nothing more sinister than that.

'No?' he whispered. Marv made an amused sound in the back of his throat, and disappeared again.

Sev tried to evaluate his surroundings, but not too strenuously. He'd got as far as ascertaining that he was lying on a sofa on his stomach, with his torso completely naked, when Marv returned carrying a cold compress and a glass containing cloudy water.

'Can you drink this?' he asked, and, not waiting for an answer, propped up Sev's chin and held the glass tilted to his lips. Forced to either drink or choke, Sev chose the former, despite the discomfort of the pressure on his throat from holding his neck up.

'My tequila remedy,' Marv added irrelevantly. 'Disprin in water.'

The movement had broken the unnatural whistling in his head, along with the full pain of eight glasses of straight tequila to a head that thought a couple of half-pints of weak lager was pushing it. He groaned.

'You have no head for drink,' Marv said amiably. Sev wasn't about to argue that point, because he was holding the wonderfully cool flannel to Sev's aching forehead. Anyway, he was right, and that sort of thing tended to destroy the possibility of debate.

Marv moved to perch on the edge of the sofa, while Sev let his head press onto the arm, trapping the flannel in place. The rough touch of Marv's jeans reawoke Sev to his semi-undressed state.

'Where's my jumper?' he asked uncertainly. Omigod, his mind was screaming, he took advantage of us!

Marv must have had mind-reading powers, for he answered Sev's unspoken thought in a lazy drawl. 'I didn't shag you, if that's what you're worried about.' He leaned forward so that the coarse fibres of his shirt brushed Sev's taut, highly-sensitised back muscles, and breathed in his ear, 'I don't need to steal gratification from comatose strangers, Severus. I have plenty of conscious ones to choose from.' Sev shivered.

He straightened up, and continued in his normal voice, 'On the other hand, I was stuck here waiting for you to wake up. I needed something to look at.' He trailed a finger suggestively down Sev's spine, making him jump. 'Do you work out?'

'No,' Sev said, squirming away from Marv's teasing finger, which he removed abruptly. 'I just forget to eat a lot.'

'How can you forget to eat?' Marv asked incredulously.

'I don't know,' Sev admitted. 'Food just doesn't interest me that much.'

'It doesn't interest me much either, except there are so many possibilities - you know, with whipped cream and things,' Marv said thoughtfully.

'Is there anything you cannot make sound dirty?' Sev asked curiously.

'Haven't found it yet,' Marv announced cheerfully, and moved off the couch. Sev's side felt suddenly cold.

'I'll go make you some coffee,' he said, from the direction of the kitchen, 'then I'll give you a lift home. I have to go back to the bar anyway.'

'Home?' Sev asked muzzily.

'Yes, a place you reckon you inhabit occasionally,' Marv said sarcastically, returning with a mug of coffee. Sev looked at it in distaste. He'd gone and destroyed its purity by adding milk. Still, caffeine was caffeine. He sipped, winced, and sipped again.

'Why do I have to go home?' he asked, rubbing his head, which was beginning to throb slightly less now.

'Because it's half-past eleven and you have school in the morning?' Marv suggested.

Sev's eyes widened in horror. 'But I left school fifteen years ago!' he wailed.

Marv curled his lip. 'You're a teacher, you prat. Come on, I've called Phineas.'

Marv got Phineas to drop him at the Leaky Cauldron and chucked him a fifty, along with instructions to take Sev to wherever it was that he lived, and also to shut his fat mouth concerning his lewd remarks on the brevity of their 'date'.

Sev was almost unconscious by the time he arrived home, and tumbled himself into bed straight away. It wasn't until the next morning that he realised Marv still had his jumper, and that he'd never told him what he did for a living.

 

 


	6. Sympathy For The Devil

_But what a shame_

_'Cause everyone's heart don't beat the same_

_We're beating out of time_

(Green Day)

Seamus, truly gelling with the whole 'sporty' vibe, much to Dean's disgust, had chosen to wear the white French rugby jersey for his blind date, along with sand-coloured cords. Dean, striking out on his own, had chosen a red t-shirt and black jeans. They made him look like a naughty schoolboy - which indeed he was.

Oh well, Seamus thought miserably to himself, while Dean smoothed his hair in the mirror, at least I'll have something to look at. He was becoming overwhelmed by the desire to make Dean as he was before - all sporty and gauche, and, before the whole coming-out business at least, the second half of Seamus. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He'd pushed Dean into admitting his lack of interest in other boys, when they could have bumbled along just fine without clarifying it. He'd set Dean up with Ginny, instead of allowing him to work it out on his own. And who knew, Seamus' mother might well have got grandchildren out of him before that happened. He'd convinced Dean he needed a complete fashion overhaul, and he was left wishing that he was just in his baggy old tracksuit pants.

Maybe these changes would have come about by themselves. But if they had, at least Seamus wouldn't be left feeling so guilty and responsible - especially when he was starting to wish they'd never taken place.

Fussily flicking one strand of hair back into place - the old Dean would simply have let it fall any old way - Dean turned to Seamus with a solemn expression.

'I know this isn't going to be so much fun for you tonight,' he said seriously.

Talk about understatement, Dean, Seamus thought sadly. Three months ago, they'd have spent this time making microwave popcorn in time to watch Lord of the Rings, or Star Wars, or some new film on Sky Box Office (in Seamus' house, this would be substituted for by whatever straight-to-video movie showing on terrestrial). Every so often, they would scrumptiously raid Mr Finnegan's whiskey cabinet, or take down Mrs Thomas' bottle of 'cooking' brandy from the top press. Dean would rave about whatever girl he was passionately in love with, and Seamus would make one up, all the while watching Dean's red mouth, his flashing eyes.

'I really appreciate it, you know,' Dean said, pushing him playfully on the shoulder. Man to man.

'Just don't expect this for every date you go on in the rest of your life,' Seamus warned. 'Unless you plan on taking the girl to a gay bar,' he added brightly, and had the satisfaction of seeing Dean's face scrunch up in horror. He resolutely ignored the part of him that cried at that.

It would certainly put Dean off pairing him up with a bloody girl again. Not that he had anything against them - salt of the earth, wonderful creatures. Just - lacking a little, in certain, specific, areas...

~

Bertie caught up with Remus late Friday evening, as the rays of the setting sun highlighted the floating dust motes in the air. Remus impatiently pushed at his hair, then realised it wasn't there any more. He glanced over at Sev as Bertie entered the staffroom, but he had his face turned away, packing his bag full of tests and textbooks. There were deep lavender circles under his eyes, and he kept scrubbing at his head, making his hair stand up in all directions. Remus, biting his lip, averted his eyes, and came face to face with Bertie's smiling, baked-apple face.

'I just wanted a quick chat with you, lad,' he said cheerfully. 'About your idea for a new sports complex. I came up with a notion for fundraising!'

'Great. Let's have it, then,' Remus said tiredly.

'A dance!' Bertie exclaimed, wearing an expression last seen on plastic Santa Clauses.

'Are you mad?' Sev said scathingly.

Bertie appeared to consider this, putting his head on one side. 'I could be,' he said seriously. 'I prefer to think of myself as eccentric, though.'

'Bertie, don't mind him,' Remus said, exasperated. 'I think it's a great idea.' He didn't; but there was no way he was going to back Sev up.

'Well, I don't. Have you considered with whom you are dealing?' Sev said witheringly. 'Ten to one there'll be at least four fights, one resulting in hospitalised injury. Everyone will get drunk on bootlegged vodka and we'll have a couple more unplanned pregnancies to refer to the local hospital and social services, who will not thank us. And - and, someone will _definitely_ set off the fire alarm.'

'Punch,' Remus said promptly. Against his better judgement (but hell, most things he did were against that; it was merely his method of measuring how mad his choices were) plans were beginning to form in his mind.

'Excuse me?' Bertie said politely.

'As sarcasm, that could use work,' Sev commented.

'I said, if we give them mild alcoholic punch - oh, and hand out condoms - maybe they won't drink as much on the sly.'

'Well, maybe,' Sev said grudgingly. 'But someone will spike it.'

'Spike spiked punch?' Bertie inquired mildly. 'What would be the reason for that?'

'They're teenagers. They don't need a _reason_ ,' Sev snapped.

'Besides, we'll tell them it's strong,' Remus shrugged. 'And seeing as how you're so conscientious, _you_ can patrol the beverages table.'

' _What_?'

'Come on, Bertie, let's go to your office and write all this down,' Remus said sweetly, and, ignoring Sev, who was gulping like a fish, escorted Bertie out of the room.

He was left to mouth to a disinterested coat hook, ' _Condoms?_ Does he realise how expensive the bloody things are? This is a school, not a Family Planning clinic!'

Realising how stupid he sounded - and not just because he was talking to a wall - Sev hurriedly desisted and made a rapid exit, banging the door loudly after him.

Just because.

~

The doctor told Hermione her sprained ankle should be sufficiently recovered by Monday to allow for a return to school. She felt she hid her dismay at the length of time involved tolerably well, and resigned herself to some hard-core studying - in bed.

The events of the previous afternoon were like a hazy summer daydream. She couldn't really have eaten ice cream with Black, and had a discussion with him, on her bed, about art and lust. It was just too bizarre.

The smells of cooking were just tempting her to hobble downstairs when their was a thumping of feet and Blaise swung into her room, cheeks all aglow. She dropped heavily onto Hermione's bed, narrowly avoiding her foot, which Hermione quickly snatched out of the way.

'Well, aren't we full of the joys of spring,' she remarked.

'God, your face looks awful,' Blaise said, with a little more frankness than Hermione felt capable of appreciating.

'Thank you so much,' she muttered. She knew from her reflection that her face, aside from the black eye, was a patchwork of small, healing cuts and bruises. She looked, not to put to fine a point on it, battered. 'I'm so ashamed,' she sighed.

'Why?' Blaise asked, in consternation.

'Well, Pansy just knocked me down like a feather,' Hermione said. 'I feel like I've let down the whole feminist side, what with being so weak and wimpy.'

Blaise snorted contemptuously. 'Well, I'll admit it wasn't your finest hour. But I don't think you should feel disgraced just because you couldn't hold your own in an unprovoked bitch-fight. It's not exactly the most honourable thing to be competent at.'

'Still, I was thinking that learning, you know, self-defence and stuff, would be a good idea,' Hermione said hesitantly.

'Oh, hell yes!' Blaise agreed heartily. 'There'll probably be far more difficult situations to face than Pansy wanting to land a few blows because she overheard us talking about Black in the toilets.'

Realising what she'd just said, Blaise flushed deep red under her dead white makeup and clapped her hand to her mouth, out of the age-old, ever-vain hope that this would unsay the words that had been better left unsaid.

'What?' Hermione growled dangerously.

'Yeah, um, she kind of - in a sort of way - maybe heard you saying you fancied Black,' Blaise stuttered.

'Oh god!' Hermione groaned in deep and heartfelt despair, covering her eyes with her hands in the traditional manner of the truly distressed. 'Oh _god_. That must mean - he must know I like him! Oh, god, god, shit!'

Blaise risked a glance in her direction. Hermione was surreptitiously peeking out from behind her fingers.

'I'm being a drama queen, aren't I?' she said sheepishly.

'Just a little,' Blaise said, carefully. 'But you are entitled. I'm so, so sorry.'

'What for?' Hermione asked, in genuine curiosity. 'Did you _know_ Pansy was there?'

'No!' Blaise exclaimed, horrified. 'Do you think I would - if I knew she was listening - honestly!' she trailed off into incoherence.

'You have nothing to be sorry for,' Hermione said, making a bemused face. 'Well - maybe for forcing me to realise that I fancied Black - I could have avoided a hell of a lot of trouble if I'd just ignored him for the next five months or so.'

'Ye-es,' Blaise said uncertainly. Hermione watched her with raised eyebrows. Summoning up her blood, Blaise forced herself to add, 'But you've got to admit - your life's become a lot more exciting...'

To Blaise's relief, and slight surprise, Hermione didn't wallop her. Instead, she gazed over at her Klimt print with an unreadable expression. 'In your world, exceiting seems to be synonymous with pain.' She sent Blaise a sharp look.

'Well. Pain is what makes life interesting,' Blaise said, with the look of one who's learnt to believe this because it was the only option that cancelled out despair. 'It reminds us that we're alive.'

'So,' Hermione said, with a little quiet malice in her voice, 'how's Harry?'

'He's...er, I'm worried about him,' Blaise confessed. 'I know it's more than a little over-the-top, but it's not just because I fancy him - really! I don't want to see anyone treated badly, not on my turf.'

'Oh, you silly moo,' Hermione sighed. 'You don't have to take all the world's problems on your shoulders, you know.'

'But if I don't, who will?' Blaise asked seriously.

'God?' Hermione suggested. 'Or Buddha, or Allah, or whatever.'

'That's a cop-out,' Blaise said. 'Religion is just other people too. It's just -' she struggled to find the words, 'people believing in other people. Or themselves. It all comes down to people.'

Hermione put her head on one side. 'Will you be offended if I ask for a break from the deep philosophical musings of our time? Only, I'm quite confused _as it is_ \- I was studying Chemistry, for crying out loud.'

'Not at all,' Blaise said in relief.

'Would you like to stay for supper then?' Hermione offered, gathering her study books in one large heap and dropping them carefully onto the floor. A messy room was one thing, but books are a treasure and should be treated as such. 'I don't know what it is -'

'Spicy chicken,' Blaise said promptly. 'Your mother made me test the sauce on the way in.'

'Oxtail soup and curry powder,' Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

'It tasted nice to me,' Blaise said amenably.

'Yes, but you are a human trash can,' Hermione pointed out.

'This is true.'

~

Remus steepled his fingers and rested his forehead on them. He was terribly tired, but he wanted to finish the correction of the first-year vocab tests before he went to bed. That way he'd have all of Saturday free. There was something he needed to do.

Finally dropping his red pen in relief - the stack of messy copies were crisscrossed with underlinings and adjustments - he shook his aching hand and with the other stuffed them into a ring binder. He stood up from the desk of his small, monochrome apartment and walked over to the sink to rinse out his coffee cup.

The sodden grounds that clung to his cup reminded him painfully of Sev, whose lust for coffee was well-known and about the only emotion that he ever freely shared. As the tepid water from the tap splashed over Remus' fingers, he brooded on the events of the past week.

At the beginning of it, he'd been stroppy because of Sev's date with Selina. Now, that was the least of his worries. Even if Sev had been straight - in which case there was no use in thinking about him anyway - he doubted Selina would have been on the scene long. Sev had a restless, burning nature and it was unlikely to be satisfied by someone as shallow as Serina, charming and lively as she was.

Remus held no illusions to the effect that _he_ was the one who could satisfy Sev, being by nature modest to extremes. This didn't stop him _wanting_ Sev, because despite his diffident nature he was unused to self-restraint. He was incapable of stopping himself from desiring someone, even if all the evidence suggested that they were unlikely to return the compliment.

No, at the moment he was mewed up to his heavens in confused wonderings about Sev's sexuality. Despite the kick in the teeth that was Marv and Sev's kiss, it did provide strong proof that Sev was at least bisexual. Or possibly just very, very drunk. Neither idea appealed much to Remus, one indicating that, either way, he himself was not the object of Sev's affections, and the other just returning him promptly to square one.

Then there was Sev's desperate attempt at an explanation - 'it was only a one-night stand!'. Remus was not inclined to give credence to the 'only' in that sentence. A one-night stand, to him, suggested both sexual attraction and sex, neither of them things he wanted Sev to be experiencing with someone _else_. In that case, the dimmer-effect of the 'only' was in dire need of some new batteries.

Carelessly slamming the cup into the drainer, he wandered back into the living room and slumped onto the grey leather couch. Flicking at the remote, he stared sightlessly at the screen. The moving, talking images were just too bright; they provided no respite from his swirling thoughts.

Sighing, he jabbed at the off-button, leaned over, and picked up the telephone handset. After punching in several digits, he held the plastic casing to his ear and listened to the whirring of the dial tone, staring vacantly into space.

Some things just needed to be done.

After five rings, there was a muted snapping noise as the call was answered.

'Hello?' Remus said, biting his lip. 'Mum, it's me.'

~

Seamus' jangling nerves echoed those of the door to the Leaky Cauldron as Dean eagerly pushed it open. Restraining the urge to pull Dean back by his collar like a boisterous puppy, he instead let him bounce in ahead and shambled along behind, hands thrust deep in his pockets.

He was beginning to severely regret having agreed to this. That is, more than he already did - but in a more pressing and immediate kind of way, that suggested bolting for the door and hightailing it to Mexico. The fact that the sound system was blaring out Mundy didn't help. He was belatedly remembering why exactly he didn't do dates. (Aside from the lack of fanciable, that-way-inclined males about the place - that awful Theodore chap in 6B didn't count.)

Spotting Ginny's flame-coloured head above a press of people near the bar, he elbowed his way through to her. Sufficiently puffed from his exertions to sport rosy, milkmaid cheeks and thoroughly annoyed to boot, he turned to face Ginny, and Dean by her side like the overly-solicitous paramour that he was, plastering a smile on his face.

'Seamus, I thought you weren't going to make it there for a second,' Ginny said, in a husky, amused voice. Seamus stifled an urge to hit her.

'Your date's ordering our drinks,' she went on. 'Dean said Carlsburg for you - is that okay?'

'It's grand, thanks.' He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet.

'Oh, don't worry about that,' Ginny laughed. 'Cedric's getting this round.'

Seamus made a baffled face and poked at his inner ear. Dean was shooting him an extremely smug look from underneath his long lashes.

'Here you go,' said a breathless voice from behind him. 'God, this place is packed! I nearly had to sell my body to get these things before tomorrow morning.'

Seamus turned, a suspicion growing his gut. A tall boy with dark hair was struggling with three pint glasses and a fancy-looking cocktail complete with umbrella and swivel stick. It looked like something that should come with a health warning, not to mention a bonus deckchair.

It was clear that the boy was on the verge of inadvertently converting his hard-bought drinks into so much smashed glass and dribbles of liquid. Seamus fumbled to take one of the pints and the cocktail glass, in the process tangling his fingers with the boy's long, pale ones. Ignoring a strange tremor that passed along his spine, Seamus offloaded the cocktail on Ginny, while Dean grabbed the pint and took a long swig. He then turned to Ginny, took her glass out of her hands and proceeded to kiss her with much precision and investment.

Embarrassed, jealous and nervous - three emotions that often go hand in hand - Seamus turned back to the boy. He was standing, shuffling his feet, his hands shoved into his black jeans in a perfect imitation of Seamus.

'I'm afraid your friend took your Carlsberg,' he said apologetically. Seamus felt like he'd been hit with a hammer. The guy was _beautiful._ His eyes were almond-shaped and luminescent, silvery-grey. His features had an Oriental cast, with smooth olive skin - marred here and there with the odd spot - stretched tautly over cheekbones so high they could have come with wing mirrors. His unruly shock of straight, dark hair kept escaping from behind his ears, where he periodically tucked it back impatiently.

Seamus belatedly realised that he'd been gaping like a fish. 'It's okay,' he gabbled. 'They all taste like piss anyway, in my opinion.'

Thankfully, the boy didn't take umbrage at this. 'I agree wholeheartedly,' he laughed. 'Not that I've, um, drunk piss. Not lately, at any road.'

'Oh, jaysus, me neither,' Seamus said hastily. 'I'm Seamus, by the way.'

'I know,' the boy said solemnly. 'Ginny told me. She's my neighbour. I'm Cedric, and according to my mother, I'm an official waster.'

'Does she, by any chance, happen to be in league with mine?' Seamus inquired. 'She told _me_ that she signed me up on the official registrar of wasters.'

Cedric laughed. It was a low, rumbling sound, quite unlike Dean's deep belly-laughs. 'At least you have a chance for redemption. Deciding to study politics instead of medicine killed my mother's opinion of me stone dead. Oh, and being gay didn't help either.'

'So are you -' Seamus couldn't quite figure out how to end this question. Cedric frowned.

'Well, yes,' he said. 'Didn't Ginny tell you?'

'No,' Seamus said sulkily. 'In fact, I was under the distinct impression that they were setting me up with a _girl_.'

Cedric's lips compressed in amusement. 'Oh, that would be Ginny's idea of a joke. She has a very singular sense of humour.'

'It's singular all right. In fact, she's the only one that finds it funny,' Seamus said, glaring at the oblivious Ginny over his shoulder.

'I hope I'm not too pale a substitute.' Cedric raised his eyebrows and waggled them comically.

'Obviously not, when compared with a _girl_.' Seamus body-shuddered again at the world.

'God, you're cute,' Cedric said softly. Then, before Seamus could form a response further than the W of 'What?!!?' Cedric grabbed his hand. Seamus looked down in surprise at the fingers that were holding tightly to his own, suggesting that their owner wasn't going to be letting go any time soon. He felt a peculiar jolt fizzle down into the bottom of his stomach.

When he looked up again, hoping his expression wouldn't give him away, Cedric was smiling, revealing two rows of orthodontic miracles.

'Let's dance.'

~

Lavender rang Blaise from the toilets of the Leaky Cauldron to see if she was coming out.

'Is Harry there?' Blaise asked without preamble, not in the mood to bother with subtleties.

'Who?' Lavender asked in confusion, transfixed by her image in the small grimy mirror, which revealed that she needed to top up on the sparkly lipgloss. The thought was the deed, and she held her glitter-covered phone to her ear with her shoulder so she could uncap the sticky tube.

'Harry Potter, of course!' Blaise said impatiently.

'Oh, him,' Lavender said thickly, smearing the gelatinous, jelly-like gloss over her plump lips. 'No, I don't think so. I didn't see Ron either. Hey, guess what! Zach's here again, and he brought more mates. If you want - oh. How odd. She's rung off.'

Shrugging, she dropped her phone into her purse, which shimmered with glitter. A bottle of WKD - her fourth - was standing beside the sink and she took another mouthful, leaving a sparkly imprint around the rim.

There was a flushing noise behind her and a moment later, Pam emerged from a tiny cubicle and took two steps to the sink to wash her hands. Lavender was now occupied with smoothing down her short black polyester skirt, and jiggling the décolletage of her spaghetti-string top to show maximum cleavage.

Pam shook her hands dry and went to stand behind her. She ran her fingertips up Lavender's exposed forearm.

'Ew! Your hands are all wet,' Lavender complained.

Pam rolled her eyes and twisted her around, her lips diving against Lavender's in a sticky fusion of lipgloss. Their tongues met and intertwined for a moment before Pam abruptly disengaged and leaned over Lavender to quaff some of her drink.

Then, giggling, they returned to the dance floor, where Lavender was immediately swooped upon by Zach for yet another game of tonsil-hockey.

~

Blaise cut Lavender's call and sat chewing her lips, deep in thought. On Monday, she was going to get Harry's number, come hell or high water. In the meantime, though...

'Mum, where's the phone book?'

It was time to do a little research on his behalf.

~

Seamus felt both elated and incredibly awkward. Cedric was a brilliant dancer, but Seamus was more than a little unnerved by his moves. Seamus had never danced with a boy before. Seamus had never danced with _anyone_ before, unless you counted his Aunt Mildred at family birthday parties. Unlike Mildred, Cedric was exceedingly sexy, and Seamus was pretty sure that the way he was brushing up against Seamus wasn't accidental.

He liked it, though.

Seamus, on the other hand, had all the dancing abilities of a dead tree frog. He stood awkwardly, too embarrassed to try and imitate Cedric. That is, until Cedric grabbed his hands again, and pulled him right up against his body. Seamus could feel the pulsing of Cedric's stomach through his thin black t-shirt, and his warm, alcohol-tinted breath on his nose.

'Follow me,' Cedric murmured, placing one of Seamus' hands on his jutting hip and gripping the other tightly. Seamus held his hand lightly on Cedric's side, trying not to think too loudly, in case certain wilful parts of his anatomy heard.

All at once, the music changed to a loud, bouncing beat, and Cedric was off, leading him in a crazy tango. Seamus was forced to squeeze his hand onto Cedric's hipbone to keep up, and Cedric's other hand was under his arm, across his back, pressing them firmly together.

Not that he minded.

Cedric's overplayed impression of a tango - throwing his chin up, and whirling Seamus around like a marionette on E, while he giggled helplessly - caught the imagination of the dancing, grinding masses. Soon, everyone had grabbed a partner and was charging up and down the room, some people crying with laughter, everyone using it as an excuse to cop a feel.

Seamus was whirled by Dean and Ginny, who were staring into each other's eyes as they danced, not really paying much attention to moving as such. Ginny gave them a brief wave over Dean's shoulder, but then they were gone.

As the song drew to a close, Cedric expertly twirled Seamus in a circle so that the finale found him with Cedric's arms crossed across his chest, binding them closely together. His face was inches from Cedric's, and his quick, short breaths mimicked the pulsing that Seamus could feel in his solar plexus. Indescribable, pleasurable, squirmy things were taking place in Seamus' stomach. But they were accompanied by a sudden, all-consuming fear. He tore his gaze away and his eyes roved the room, until at last they lit on Dean, giggling with Ginny in a corner.

Gently, Cedric released him. The warmth of his arms - to which he had quickly become accustomed as they danced - removed, he felt cold and stiff, but ultimately relieved. He turned to Cedric to mouth something inane, and saw in his eyes that he knew.

'Another drink?' Cedric offered resignedly.

~

'Where did you go yesterday evening?'

The question caught Draco off-guard.

'What?'

'I said, where did you go last evening?' Narcissa repeated patiently. 'Only, I had a vegetarian stir-fry cooked for you, and you never ate it.'

'Must have missed it,' Draco said hastily. Yes, the Big Mac he'd consumed on his walk home had clearly granted him a temporary blind spot in the direction of the soggy mass of undercooked vegetables that had awaited him on the worktop.

'I went to an evening class,' his mother was saying. 'You know - the Italian one. I left a note. The teacher wanted us to come in early for, um, a grammar session. Yes.'

Draco frowned. Narcissa was rarely this forthcoming, operating her 'private life' on a strict need-to-know basis. This much lucidity on her part was out of character.

'Mum, you don't have an evening class in Italian,' he reminded her. 'You were doing one in French -'

'Yes, that was the one I meant,' she said, in undisguised relief. Draco tried not to smile. Who knew his mother could be this obvious?

'Except that it ended two weeks ago,' he finished.

'Oh.' His mother shook her platinum hair, clearly discomfited.

Draco inched past her, opening the fridge and withdrawing a can of Coke. He shook it vigorously, and pulled the tab, keeping his thumb over the opening. He liked the fizzing feeling on his finger pad - one of the most exquisitely sensitive parts of the body, apparently.

'I'm going to do some homework,' he lied, heading for the door. He just knew his mother was biting her thumb behind him. She did it rarely, only in times of deep mental distress or confusion. 'By the way,' he added, 'did you take Binns some of your stir-fry?'

'Yes,' Narcissa said, before her brain reconnected to her mouth. The door to Draco's room was slamming as her eyes unglazed and she hit herself on the forehead. 'Shit!'

And, a few moments later, she mouthed dubiously, ' _Homework?_ '

~

In his room, Draco set down his drink, flopped onto his bed and fished about in one pocket for his matchbox-sized masterpiece of Japanese telecommunications. Before he could chicken out, he pressed the speed dial. Hermione's number, which he had taken from her phone while she lay sleeping, was stored as number one.

His stomach was churning with nerves and anxiety, with a stronger, more pleasurable tingling in deeper places, he worried the skin at the side of his thumb with his teeth.

After nine rings - he refused to admit to the shame of counting - she picked up.

'Hello?'

Her voice was breathless. Draco devoutly wished it wasn't, as it conjured up all sorts of interesting images that left him half-way to speechless.

'Hello?'

And she sounded annoyed now, more like her usual self.

'Why does it take you so long to answer the phone?' he snapped. Attack is the first form of defence. Defence is another word for self-protection. Self-protection is really covering yourself for the fall. So by attacking you try to protect yourself from inevitable embarrassment...and usually fail dismally.

'Black.' It wasn't a question, merely a resigned admission of his presence on the other end of the line. 'I won't even bother asking how you got this number. In fact, I may not even bother answering your question.'

'Please don't hang up,' Draco said, gritting his teeth at how pathetic he sounded.

'Why Black, I never knew you cared.' Her voice sounded amused now. 'My phone was under my bed.'

'Oh, right.'

'Did you want something?'

'You.' The word was out before he'd thought it. There was a crackling pause at the other end.

'You want me?' Hermione's voice was cautious, and even a trifle scared.

'Yes,' Draco said smoothly, recovering his sang-froid. 'I want you to tell me the homework we got from McGonagall.'

At the other end, Hermione rolled her eyes. 'I know it may have escaped your notice Black, but I am currently not in school. I haven't been for three days.'

 _Oh shit!_ his brain screamed, just when he wanted it to come out with something smooth and winning. Back to the standard attack mode, then. 'I meant from last week. She gave us a two-week essay thing, right?'

'Oh, yeah. That. Hang on a sec, I'll get it for you.' Was he imagining it, or was her voice just a little tighter? Draco began gnawing his thumb again. He hoped he wasn't developing a taste for cannibalism.

Hermione read out the essay title, while Draco pretended to take it down. In reality, he was smoothing out little wrinkles in his jeans with his damp thumb, while desperately trying to think of something cool to say. Scrap cool - he'd settle for a phrase that suggested he was vaguely homo sapient.

'Well, thanks, Hermione,' he said, after he'd managed to convince her that he had it written word for word, down to the last quotation mark. He fumbled.

'See you Monday, then.'

Reflecting after the event, resisting the urge to bite off his thumb or beat himself to death with the small silver mobile, he figured it was never going to go down in the Hall of Fame as the greatest one-liner in the history of the world.

Even in the event of a nuclear explosion that wiped out all population saving tree-dwelling possums.

~

Cedric and Seamus walked on ahead as Dean and Ginny stopped to kiss under every lamppost.

Cedric, hands in pockets, staring straight ahead. Not bothering to raise a hand to bat back his floppy fringe, or even shake it out of his eyes. Seamus, a burning need to slap Ginny combated only by a hotter desire to be anywhere else, teeth permanently embedded in his bottom lip. Arms crossed defensively, and keeping defeated eyes fixed on the ground.

Cedric broke the awkward conversational barrier. 'It's him, isn't it?'

His voice, although low enough to be picked up on canine sound waves, nonetheless rudely fractured an almost-silence created by the flicker of electric lights, the muted house noises from the dwellings they were passing, and the slurps and giggles from behind them.

Seamus nodded miserably, not looking up. It spoke volumes that Cedric didn't even need to qualify the question. Curling his lip slightly, Cedric looked away.

'Are you going to tell me something crass, like I'll get over it in time?' Seamus asked aggressively.

'No, of course not,' Cedric said, sounding mildly surprised. 'I avoid lying wherever possible.'

Seamus looked at him, crinkling his forehead. Cedric was striding along, his legs moving in perfect synch, in, out, in, out of the shadows cast by the streetlamps and their fake-sunlight brightness.

'You won't get over him,' Cedric said matter-of-factly.

'Oh lord.' Seamus rolled his eyes. 'The old 'first love' line. Please. Spare me.'

'Seamus,' Cedric said meditatively, 'if you don't learn to listen with your mouth shut, one of these days someone will take it upon themselves to give you quite a painful lesson. And don't think it won't be me.'

Chastened, Seamus rubbed his chin in embarrassment. 'Sorry.'

Cedric lifted one shoulder. 'Whatever.'

'You were saying?'

'Something you should probably hear, which means of course that you won't listen.' Cedric paused, not for a response, but to gather his thoughts. 'If you love someone, you will always love them. As for first loves, that's a bit too messy to define, as most people have them at a stage in their lives when they can't tell their cock from their elbow.'

Seamus spat with laughter. Cedric regarded him with raised eyebrows.

'Glad you find your situation so amusing,' he said coolly. 'Still, it does you good to laugh, much as you might prefer something more naughty. The point I'm trying to make is, the whole rebound theory is a load of bull. You never truly get over someone. If you're fortunate, you simply meet a good or even better replacement, who makes you _think_ you have.'

'That's depressing,' Seamus said. He wondered exactly how drunk Cedric was. 'You should have done philosophy.'

'And give my mother a seizure?' Cedric snorted. 'Actually, that's not a bad idea of yours, Finnegan.'

'Glad to be of service,' Seamus said, sketching a courtly bow and nearly falling into the gutter. Cedric laughed, but did not extend a hand to help him.

'Are you quite drunk, Seamus?' he enquired curiously.

'As much as you are,' Seamus retorted.

'Ah, but I have two more years and twice as many muscles as you have.'

'Your tongue and your imagination certainly get plenty of exercise.'

'Not drunk enough to kill the sarcasm.' Cedric shook his head in mock regret. 'Obviously I did not squander enough money tonight.'

Seamus laughed, but did not feel the urge to continue the banter in the hopes of making Cedric laugh. Not like with Dean. He had nothing to repay Cedric.

They strolled along under the hazy sodium light until Seamus reached his gate.

'Well, this is me,' he said, pretending to doff his cap. 'Thanks for the lift, guv'nor.'

'Any time,' Cedric said, watching him unbolt the gate with some difficulty.

Seamus was distracted from the complexities of locks by a hand on his arm. He followed it to Cedric's eyes, which were glowing in the half-light.

'Listen. Any time you feel ready to talk about this - well, I'm probably far down the list, but I have been there, you know.' Cedric paused. 'You may just get my cool answering machine message, but still.'

'Thanks,' Seamus said, feeling oddly touched. Finally managing to open the gate, he hurried up to his door without looking back. Cedric watched his door for a few minutes, before sighing deeply and continuing on his way, kicking up random stones in the pavement and scoring goals in the gutter.

~

Blaise replaced the phone in it's cradle with a thoughtful expression. They hadn't told her anything she couldn't have figured out on her own, but they'd promised to send her information packs, speakers, pamphlets. But no magic wand to cure Ron, and lift one burden from Harry's far too heavy load.

As she had told Harry, the person had to want to be cured. Which was all well and good, but what did you do if, as was most likely, they didn't want to be? If they preferred roasting their brain cells to hell and back?

Blaise decided she wasn't going to think about it any more, just as the phone rang.

'Yes?'

'Hi, Blaise!' Lavender. Who else could insert a giggle where the exclamation mark shouldn't be?

'What do you want, Lav?'

'Me? Nothing in particular, I'm all shagged out.' There was a cascade of throaty giggles from the other end, not all of which - Blaise hoped and prayed - were Lavender's. No one person should be able to giggle that much. It was unhealthy.

'But I do have something _you_ want.'

'A huge bag of food that keeps refilling itself, to end world hunger?' Blaise suggested.

'What? No, you dumbass. Harry Potter's number!' Cue giggles. What was funny about that, Blaise would like to know. It wasn't like they could _see_ her blushing.

'Well, do you want it? Do you? Do you?'

'I think the question is more one of whether or not you're going to give it to me,' Blaise pointed out, hoping that this twist of logic would confused Lavender enough to fool her into giving her the number.

It worked. Lavender reeled off a string of digits, which Blaise scribbled on her shirt cuff with one of her mother's lipsticks. She could appreciate the irony.

'What are you going to do with that then? Lavender said teasingly. 'Hey! Pam, I'm on the _phone_!'

The line went dead. Blaise, staring happily into space, didn't notice.

~

Remus cleared his throat nervously and spoke into the voice box which hung, disconcertingly, at eye level. He wondered, yet again, if this was a ploy to wrong-foot visitors.

It worked, too.

'Remus Lupin.'

A disembodied voice crackled down the line.

'Your mother's expecting you, Mr. Lupin. Stand by.'

The huge wrought-iron gates swung open by remote control, and Lupin wheeled his bicycle up the smooth tarmacadam drive, which swept out of sight into a grove of sycamores. By the time he reached the palatial, Ionic-style villa, where a liveried butler was waiting on the cascade of marble steps, he was out of breath and wishing he'd just cycled the damn bike up the forty miles of driveway.

'Mr. Lupin?' The butler's poker face surveyed Remus' dusty bicycle with the eye of someone who'd seen it all before, and didn't like it the first time. 'Will you be wanting to park your vehicle?'

'Uh...' Remus gulped. He couldn't imagine the butler's ivory-gloved hands holding his sweaty handlebars and delicately wheeling it to a parking space, nose in the air.

Well, actually, he could, which was causing his current asphixation.

The butler snapped his fingers, and a slouching figure appeared from the jungle-like depths of the front garden.

'Bill,' the butler addressed the person - it had to be a person, there were the right number of legs and things. Remus just wished he could get his brain to believe it. He peered closer. Ah - another Weasley flunk-out, it seemed.

'Deal with it.' The butler waggled his fingers in the direction of Remus' bike. Remus nearly bit his tongue off trying not to laugh.

Bill took the bike by the centre of the handlebars and dragged it after him like a stubborn dog, ignoring the clips he received from the worn wheels.

'Do come inside, sir,' the butler said crisply, not once looking Remus in the eye. His desire to laugh disappeared as quickly as it had come - a regular occurrence, in his mother's house. 'Would you care for some refreshment? Mrs Riddle usually takes her elevenses at this time.'

'No, I'm fine, thanks.' Lupin concentrated on not soiling the vast, spotless black-and-white tiled hall. It gave way to a tiered rise of red-carpeted stairs, down which his mother was descending - floating, really - in a cloud of Galliano silk and sold-by-the-millimetre expensive perfume.

'Remus! Darling!' she cried, hurrying forward to engulf him in one of her vast 'mother' hugs, which were as brittle as being embraced by a tree. Remus stood carefully in the circle of her arms, not wanting to put his arms around her in case he ripped her dress or the like. He'd done that once, when he was nine. He'd never done it since he was nine. He'd been careful, after that.

'Come, come,' his mother urged, gesturing him, with much hand-fluttering and dancer-like poses, into the drawing room, while at the same time managing not to touch him at all.

The room was huge, high, full of plaster moulding and heavy antique furniture. A stiff breeze blew through the gauzy drapes that provided little shielding of the vast glass double doors at one end, which stood fully open to the elements. Remus shivered.

'Sit down, dear,' his mother chided. She was already seated in a balloon-backed gilt chair, a little table by her side. It sported a lace doily on which she was tastefully arranging a selection of artful confectionary.

'I had them bake you lots of nice things,' she said, looking up at him with the childish vigour that occasionally highlighted her cold, unfeeling exterior, like the flash of sunlight on snow. 'You always had a sweet tooth - I remember!'

'Thank you, mother,' he said, feeling sorry for her, as he always did. He dutifully picked up a miniature éclair and perched awkwardly on a chaise longue, the fabic of which was so heavily embroidered it probably could have walked about on its own.

'It's been so long, Remus,' she said, clasping her fragile hands around her bony knees. He'd forgotten; or rather, blocked it out, in self-defence.

She never ate, of course, unless it was a formal dinner, in which case she'd throw it up afterwards.

'Nearly two years! You bold child.' She smiled forgivingly, and Remus wondered if she had missed him. Perhaps she had written it in her diary, 'Miss your son'; the one where she used to record calories, before she stopped eating them at all.

'You're too thin, mother,' he said.

'Thank you, dear.' She beamed at him, as if he'd given her a wonderful compliment. Remus turned away so that she would not see the battle on his face; to lash out or to cry. She would understand neither.

'How is your father, Remus?' she inquired. He looked back at her. There was nothing but polite, indifferent curiosity to see there. Nothing of the woman who had broken his father's heart remained in that face. It had been burned away, by fire and by pain and by years in this wonderful, desolate mausoleum.

'He's doing well, thank you,' Remus said carefully. He doubted his mother would like to hear that his father was at yet another drying-out clinic, one that he would skip in a few weeks' time, leaving Remus to foot the bill, as per usual. _That_ brand of carelessness he had learned well from Vanessa. Vanessa hadn't cared the first time either, the time when Remus had been forced to miss school for a fortnight in order to spend his days learning to feed himself and his drunken father, and to wrestle the bottles from his father's hands.

She would not want to know now.

'That's good,' she said vaguely, her attention, like a magpie's, caught on a glittering object. 'Do you like my new writing desk? It's authentic Victorian!'

It wasn't likely to be otherwise, at the price you no doubt paid for it.

Remus smiled, as his mother wanted him to. 'It's very nice. It'll - come in handy.' Well, it wasn't like his stepfather didn't have the money and to spare. He would hardly have been able to feed his cocaine habit if he _didn't_ , not to mention those of his wife and mistresses.

'Are you still teaching, dear?' she said, frowning, reaching for a cake. Even after all this time, Remus' heart lifted with impossible hope, and came crashing down again as she replaced it, shuddering as if it had suddenly sprouted a fungal growth.

'Yes, mother.'

'Not at Eton?'

'Not any more. Oakfield Comprehensive.'

His mother wrinkled her nose. 'Comprehensive? Surely you could do better than that?'

'Perhaps.' Arguing with his mother was futile. What opinions she did have were more firmly entrenched than the concrete monstrosities her husband erected in the besmirched name of 'architecture'.

'You _know_ you don't have to do that,' she said. 'I'm sure Tomas would -'

Remus took her hand. It was like holding a sack of pebbles. Her jewel-encrusted rings chinked together, sliding off her thin fingers. 'I'm sure Tomas would too. But I'm fine. Truly I am.'

'Oh. That's good.' Vanessa looked down at her son's hand with an expression of polite bemusement. She stood up, brushing him off carelessly, and even though she didn't meant it, never meant it, the gesture still hurt as much as ever. Remus scrubbed at his suddenly prickly eyes.

'Have you seen anything of that terrible boy, Marv, lately?' his mother sang over her shoulder, primping a vase of silk roses.

Remus' face tightened. 'A bit.'

'You know he bought some pub place,' his mother said musingly. 'What with the taxi phase, I'm beginning to think he's a bit odd.'

 _He's your son. What more explanation do you need? Of course,_ he _was tarred with the same brush -_

'Don't forget the gay part,' Remus said dryly.

'Oh, of course,' his mother exclaimed, thoughtfully brushing silk thorns against her cheek. 'Are _you_ still gay too, Remus?'

'No. I found it didn't suit me, so I returned it. Got my money back and everything.'

'Oh, that's good,' Vanessa said, smiling beatifically. 'Wouldn't it have been _strange_ if it turned out that _both_ my sons were gay?'

Remus stood up, brushing crumbs off his lap.

'Considering where they came from, I'm surprised they didn't turn out distinctly worse.' He kissed his mother on the cheek which thousands of pounds annually kept rosy and firm, and ignored her vague expression of confusion. 'I have to go now, mother.'

'Oh, do you?' Her voice was lax now. To say she had divorced herself from the conversation would be misleading, as it assumed that she had been involved in it in the first place.

Remus listened to the sound of his worn loafers slapping against the Venetian marble tiles. Slap. Slap. Slap. And let it obscure the screaming voice inside his head, which wanted to tell the world, loudly, just how unfair it all was.

And the bicycle was, indeed, propped on its stand in a parking spot, painted in the gravel of the backyard.


	7. Cruel To Be Kind

Draco knocked at the white-painted door of his father's top-floor flat, desperately hoping that he would be, first of all, in, and secondly, not in a compromising situation with his boyfriend. Draco deeply respected his father's right to live his life according to his own wishes. He also had no desire to intrude on anyone's private moments. However, it was rather imperative that he talk to someone, not to mention the fact that he needed to reconnaissance about the whole Lupin scenario.

Draco's personal god was clearly taking a leak at that moment, for there was no answer, and not even muted sounds of movement that didn't want to be heard. He slumped against the tasteful cream wallpaper of the hall, desolate.

He wasn't entirely sure what he had done to provoke Hermione's ice age. That is, he could think of several reasons, which ranged from being born to not hopping her bones when she had kissed him in the arcade. It was just that he couldn't decide which - if there was only one explanation, of course - it was. He doubted that it was something so simple as her time of the month - she had never hesitated to announce that before, in the justified hope of completely grossing him out. After a while he'd even got immune to it, to the extent of knowing when it was before she had a chance to tell him (a situation which he realised was slightly off). The simple fact remained, however, that if it were only her hormones, it would be different. More explosive, for one thing - Hermione didn't believe in hiding emotions, any of them. No, it was something different. Something more significant.

He was just pathetically plotting the ways in which he could strangle himself using his father's doorknob when said parental figure emerged up the carpeted stairs. Lucius was puffing slightly, red-faced, and dangling several bulging supermarket bags from fingers that were rapidly running out of circulation.

'Draco!' he exclaimed, and smiled warmly. 'This is a surprise - and a most propitious one. Here, take this so I can open the bloody door.' Without preamble, he shoved a bag into Draco's arms and fumbled in his coat pocket for a key.

'Bloody hell!' Draco groaned. 'What have you got in here, half a dead goat?'

'Close.' His father grinned at him. 'It's Sirius' supply of sweets, nasty sugary beverages and chocolate for the week.'

'Jeez,' Draco remarked. 'You could rot the teeth of a village-ful of Rwandan schoolchildren for a _month_ with this lot.'

'That's what I keep telling him,' Lucius said, shouldering his way into the flat. 'Not with those exact words, mind. Still, I buy him a new toothbrush every week as well.'

'How domesticated,' Draco teased. Lucius bared his teeth at him over his shoulder as they made their way to the tiny kitchenette.

'Not that you need an excuse to visit, but is there something on your mind?' Lucius asked shrewdly, stacking about half-a-dozen tins of condensed milk into a press. Draco raised his eyebrows. Lucius coloured. 'Look, Sirius likes to drink it, okay?'

'Far be it from me to comment,' Draco said, raising his hands placatingly. 'I live on Coke and Skittles mainly.'

'That's terrible!' Lucius exclaimed.

'I know!' Draco agreed. 'There are always way too many green ones in the Skittle packets. I'm telling you, it's a conspiracy.'

Draco savoured the look on his father's face for a full second before caving.

'All right, you've got me,' he admitted grudgingly. 'I'm having girl troubles.'

Lucius snorted. Draco glared daggers at him.

'Sorry!' Lucius sniggered. 'But honestly, coming to me with girl troubles is like asking a fish about asthma. No common frame of reference, you know?'

'I didn't ask you to fix it, Dad,' Draco pointed out angrily. 'I just want you to be a parent and listen for a minute, please? I think you owe me that much, at least.'

That shut him up. Lucius stared at the kitchen counter for a second. When he looked up, his face was sombre, and when he spoke, there was no hint of levity in his voice.

'I'm sorry, Draco. Like you say, I can't promise to be of help, but I will listen.'

'That's all the help I need,' Draco assured him.

'Well, let me see.' Lucius cast about him. 'Tea, I think.'

~

Sev was staring at the phone, willing it to ring. He didn't want to hear from anyone in particular - or rather, he couldn't decide from whom in particular he wanted to hear - but he wished it would ring and free him from the limbo he currently inhabited. The one where, sooner or later, he would have to make a choice. And it wasn't going to be a choice about who to call, because more often than not Sev rang the astrological phone line for Leos, just to piss off Sybil by comparing how different it was to the one she predicted to him from the paper.

No, the choice was going to one of those deep, life-changing, _important_ ones.

Sev was dreading it. He had slid through life, unmarked by any great tragedy or passion, mainly by taking care not to involve himself too greatly or care too strongly about anything or anyone. His hard-baked cynicism was merely a side-effect of this. But no matter what choice he made about Marv and Remus, it was going to have earthquake-like reverberations for a long time to come.

He'd been caught off guard with these two, never expecting - and hence never shielding himself from - a meaningful, romantic attachment with another man. Women were easy - he'd grown up realising he could get away with treating women as though they didn't matter, so long as he never became too deeply enmeshed with one. Before most of them had trapped themselves in the sticky webs of marriages, children and morgages, his friends had called him the Hit-and-Run Artist.

At twenty-one, it was, if not exactly admirable, at least accepted, that some men would sow their wild oats in pastures far and wide, and possibly not return to see if they'd turned up a crop worth hanging around for. At thirty-two, people were far more inclined to look on this behaviour as reprehensible. Where, they tended to ask, was the girl who was meant to reform this Don Juan into a regular Mr Jones - the preferred fate of all bounders?

Sev rarely paid attention to what other people thought. In his opinion, this mode of living stemmed, purely and simply, from a desire to impress a potential bedmate. As he had never cared much, one way or another, who he ended up bedding, he'd never tapped into that whole consciousness. If one girl didn't want him, there would probably be another who would. He didn't have low standards; he had no standards. To give credit where credit was due, he rarely had to go below what most people would consider the low bar. His personal style of sod-you carelessness was often a dead cert for attracting a certain type of person, usually ones that liked challenges. The sort of people who jumped out of planes and swam with sharks for fun. Like with those pastimes, where they smilingly suffered broken limbs for the sake of the thrill, they willingly submitted to a little bruising of the blood-pumping vessel to reap the rewards with someone like Sev.

Sev harboured no illusions about sex. It was purely physical. He'd read Romeo and Juliet when he was ten and thought it singularly stupid, even with barely a decade on him. He'd accepted with equanimity the fact that most people needed other things - metaphysical ones, like the concepts of 'love' and 'fidelity' - to make up for what was, after all, a sweaty, messy, rather disappointing and repetitive bodily function. It was just that he didn't.

It had never bothered him before. Those who had got involved with him in the past knew what they were letting themselves in for - or at least they soon found out.

But things were different now. Remus had chucked the first stone at the wheels, and then Marv knocked over the whole apple cart. He knew Remus looked on sex as secondary to the whole union of souls illusion. Remus was a hopeless romantic, with an extra emphasis on the 'less'. To him, sex was a culmination of everything else - a rubber stamp on a huge, complicated relationship package. And he'd somehow sucked Sev in, because Sev's actions were effecting Remus, and worst of all, he was making Sev feel guilty.

He didn't think he ever had, before.

And then there was Marv. Marv _was_ Sev. He cared, if possible, even less than Sev. Sev did feel a strange bond with him, as a result of what they had shared. It was not an experience Sev had ever had before. He felt like a deflowered virgin who had realised that the perpetrator of his 'first time' was nothing more than a philandering arsehole. He wondered uncomfortably how many times he himself had filled that role. Marv was making him re-evaluate everything he held dear, and he didn't like it.

Giving up in disgust, Sev threw on a coat and left, deciding to go and do something innocuous, like feed the ducks in the park with hash cakes.

In the silence created by his departure, the phone rang.

~

Blaise met up with Harry after school.

'Where's Ron?' she asked.

'I don't know,' he said hopelessly.

'Oh, well, I guess we don't need him yet,' she replied, and bit her lip in worry and annoyance, anyway.

They climbed the worn linoleum-covered stairs to the staff room, and Blaise knocked tentatively. A dour-looking Binns opened the door. This could have been because students were trespassing on the holy inner sanctum, or merely because he always looked that way.

'Yes?' he said. His voice was not kind nor unkind, merely supremely indifferent.

Blaise opened her mouth, but Harry beat her to it.

'We're here to see Mr Lupin.'

Blaise smiled at him, and after a slight hesitation, he returned it. She was glad to see him speaking up - he usually pursued a policy of muteness in the presence of authority figures, except when they tried to take away his Discman.

Mr Binns moved a muscle in his face that could have indicated disbelief or welcome, but said nothing more. Blaise exchanged a worried glance with Harry.

'It's okay, Joe, I'm here,' Lupin's voice came from the shadows within.

Binns moved fractionally so that they could squeeze in, then headed down the stairs without looking back or bidding anyone farewell.

'Is he always like this?' Blaise asked Harry in an undertone.

'He doesn't say a lot,' Harry said reflectively. 'Especially when marking essays. He usually just limits himself to 'Terrible', 'A Joke' or if you're really lucky, and he's feeling voluble, 'A Pile of Donkey Excretement'.'

'No way,' Blaise contradicted him with authority. 'He wouldn't grade Hermione's essay with 'Donkey Crap' or whatever.'

'No, I believe he just writes 'That'll Do'.'

'Boy, am I glad I took French,' Blaise uttered in tones of deepest gratitude.

'Glad to hear it,' Lupin replied, hiding a smile. He had been listening, without appearing to, to their muted conversation. This in an art taught in teacher-training college, dreamt up to while away those long boring hours that students call the second ring of hell and outsiders have the temerity to name 'classes'.

'Or _je suis content de l'é coute_?' Harry suggested, with a cheeky grin that made Blaise gulp in surprise.

'Where'd you learn that?' she asked accusingly.

'I took GCSE French,' he pointed out. 'Surely you remember some GCSE History?'

Blaise just stared coldly at him.

'Or not,' he added hastily.

'What can I do for you two?' Lupin asked amiably, showing no hint that he'd just intervened in time to prevent a serious bout of either bloodshed or snogging (sometimes it's hard to tell the difference).

His words brought them back to earth, and they glanced around uncomfortably.

'Take a seat,' Lupin continued seamlessly, and they both plopped down before him, with identical expressions of worry and gratitude on their faces.

Surreptitiously studying them, Remus noticed again the sharp bones in Harry's wrists, which poked out of too-short, frayed cuffs. Without appearing to look, he marked the reddish bruise on Harry's collarbone, one that he quickly jostled his clothing to cover. From the way Blaise kept shooting him nervous, longing looks, he judged that it was no lovebite. Indeed, Harry seemed almost oblivious to Blaise's attentions, except for the fact that his foot - hooked around the leg of his chair - rested gently against Blaise's.

'It's about Ron,' Blaise began bluntly. 'We think - I mean, we know - that he's doing drugs.'

Lupin leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. 'And what do you want me to do about it?'

'Stop him!' Blaise said angrily, ignoring the strangled look Harry sent her.

'How? By locking him up in a padded cell and refusing him human contact?' Lupin gave her a weary half-smile. 'You, Blaise, of all people, should know that you can make someone do something they don't want to do.'

'But in some cases, the person wants to do the thing, they just can't admit it to themselves,' Blaise said obstinately. Harry stared fixedly at the floor.

'An extremely valid point,' Lupin conceded, raising his eyebrows in Harry's direction. Blaise blushed slightly. 'But one that we cannot take into consideration when trying to get Ron to renounce drugs. If we force him into some sort of rehabilitation system, no matter how much we want it for him, he is unlikely to come out cured. On the contrary, he may emerge more addicted than before. Even when the person actually wants to be better, it takes incredible willpower to resist the temptation.'

'You sound like you've had some experience with these matters,' Blaise ventured, cautiously, perceiving the underlying bitterness in his tone.

'Oh, my forte runs a little more to alcohol addiction,' Lupin said lightly. 'But I'm willing to give whatever help I can. Do you know what drugs he is on, exactly?'

Blaise shrugged.

'Hash,' Harry answered, his voice a little hoarse. 'He's done coke a few times, and E, at parties and stuff, but it's mainly hash.'

'So he's not moved onto heroin yet? Or any of the 'hard' drugs?' Lupin quested gently.

'No. Yes. Coke and E are hard drugs, aren't they?' Harry looked up.

'E is more like a poison,' Lupin said. 'He's extremely lucky that he survived taking it. Coke too - that often causes heart attacks. But I think, if he's still regularly smoking hash only, he clearly hasn't yet evolved a dependency on the more insidious drugs.'

'Only because he can't afford them,' Harry said dispiritedly.

'So he has the will, but not the means.' Lupin rubbed his chin again, staring into space. 'Still, I think we can regard that as positive. We may be able to catch him in the early stages of addiction.'

Blaise touched Harry's shoulder for a moment, trying to smile encouragingly. Harry evidently tried to smile back, but it slipped off his face half-way there.

'If you don't mind me asking -' Lupin's voice was low and courteous '- do you have any idea what could have brought about this habit, and how long it's been going on?'

Harry's face worked rapidly.

'You don't have to tell us anything,' Lupin assured him. 'But it might help.'

'It's been nearly a year.' Harry's voice was clipped. 'The first time we took it was at a house party, I think it was at Vinnie's, over the summer. We just did it for the laugh.'

'We?' Blaise repeated incredulously.

'Yes,' Harry replied, not looking at her. Lupin poised himself, but Blaise said nothing, only stared at Harry in horror.

'I didn't like it, but Ron did. I'd never exactly thought about drugs, like, vowing not to take them or anything, but I didn't find it to be the most enjoyable experience. But Ron - well, he's always been a bit of a misfit, I guess. Not many people understand him...I don't know. It's the only reason I can think of - that he found drugs to be an escape, or a gateway to a better reality. Especially since his mum left. I've never really asked him, because after a while he never had anything to say. He just kept doing it more and more often, and now here we are.'

'How many times did _you_ do it?' Blaise asked, with a voice as cold as liquid nitrogen.

Still not meeting her eye, Harry said slowly, 'I'm not sure. Maybe five, six times? It takes a couple of goes to get high from it.' He paused. 'And I wanted to see if it was any good.' He laughed hollowly. 'It wasn't.'

'And if it was? Would you have kept doing it?' Blaise's voice trembled - whether in sorrow or anger, Remus couldn't tell.

At last Harry looked at her, and Blaise recoiled from his expression. 'Yeah. I probably would have.' He stood up. 'Look, I was wrong. I don't think you can help us, Mr Lupin.'

He rose swiftly from his chair, and walked out, his back stiff.

'Well,' Remus remarked evenly. Blaise's face was still frozen. Lupin stood up and leaned over the windowsill, tracing a finger through the dust.

'I don't think,' he went on carefully, 'that, hypothetically, we should blame anyone for trying to escape, unless we know what it is, exactly, that they are fleeing from.'

His words seemed to do the trick. In a small voice, Blaise asked, 'Do you think I was too harsh on him?'

'No.' Lupin drew a flower with a fingernail. 'Abusing something for the sake of hegira should never be condoned. But unlike others, he has reasons for what he did, not just excuses. He resisted, too.'

'Only after he'd tried it out!'

'Miss Zabini.' Although his tone was polite, Lupin's words were as sharp as knives. 'Do not trifle with either of our intelligences. Do not pretend to me that you didn't see that bruise on his neck. Or any of the other ones he's hiding under those scruffy hand-me-downs.'

He turned to face her. Blaise was looking down at her hands, which were curled in her lap.

'If it makes you feel any better,' he added kindly, 'I have great hopes that our efforts on Mr Weasley's behalf stand a good chance of success.'

'It does. A little. But it's only the tip of the iceberg. I can't believe Ron couldn't see what we did, didn't see what Harry was going through!'

'Did you ever consider -' Lupin hesitated, wondering how to frame it. 'Perhaps this whole problem was a way of closing his eyes to what he didn't want to see?'

'That's cowardly,' Blaise said viciously.

'Ah, but not everyone is as strong as you or I, Blaise,' Lupin said, sighing.

At that moment, Sev wandered in. Catching sight of them, he started and blushed.

'I was - I just - I forgot my book - sorry,' he stuttered, and dashed out again.

Eyeing Lupin thoughtfully, Blaise said, almost to herself, 'And I sometimes wonder if that isn't the easier way.'

'Yes,' Lupin said, and Blaise wondered if he was replying to her comment or following through on his own thoughts.

~

Draco blew on his green tea, trying to prolong the time until he would have to drink it. His father watched him in amusement.

'What doesn't kill you will only make you stronger,' he pronounced.

'What an inspiring thought,' Draco mumbled, and, grimacing, took a tiny sip.

It wasn't as vile as he had thought it would be, and, encouraged, he took another, larger, swallow.

'So tell me all about it,' Lucius said, resting his chin in his cupped hands.

'Oh, it's just - hard to explain.' While trying to formulate a coherent sentence, he took another sip. The tea was quite addictive.

'Well, how about I run through a couple of scenarios and you point out the right one?' Lucius suggested. Draco nodded. This could be fun.

'You've got someone pregnant.'

'No!' Draco's eyes bulged. 'I mean, I couldn't, I'm still - ah, shit.' He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp and reached for the teapot.

'My son, the virgin,' Lucius said musingly. 'How odd that sounds. Although not as odd as Narcissa's son, the virgin. Still, you're only eighteen. Anyway, moving swiftly on -' as Draco sent him the Glare of Messy Patricide '- that's positive. I mean, not that your kid would not be welcomed, it's just that -'

'I get it!' Draco interrupted hastily. 'Next one?'

'Um, let me see.' Lucius wracked his brain. 'Here's one: she caught you cheating on her?'

'Oh, how in no way familiar does that sound,' Draco returned dryly. 'Look, the girl I like is giving me the cold shoulder for no discernable reason, and it's pissing me off.'

'Is that all?' Draco blinked. 'I mean, how awful!' Lucius was a quick learner.

'Yeah, and it wouldn't be so bad if I actually knew what I'd done wrong,' Draco sighed.

'In my experience, women are just weird,' Lucius said, with all the experience of observation.

'You know, you're right!' Draco exclaimed. Lucius looked pleased. '...you really are no help.'

'I'm sorry, Draco.' Lucius sounded irritated. 'What's her name again, Daisy?'

'No, Pansy was the one I went out with to make Hermione jealous,' Draco explained.

'Oh yes, a fine ploy,' Lucius remarked.

'Yes.' Draco paused. 'Well, Pansy beat the hell out of Hermione. Does that count?'

Lucius looked surprised and vaguely impressed. 'Things certainly have changed. In my day, Pansy would have started a slanderous rumour to destroy Hermione's reputation.'

'She doesn't have the brains,' Draco informed him with great weariness.

'Tell me about Hermione,' his father urged. Draco blinked at him again. 'No, seriously. The more I know about her, the more I can fail to advise you.'

'Well...' Draco struggled for a moment. He'd never talked to anyone about Hermione. Even his two best friends had only figured it out by deduction and, of course, mentionitis. He didn't want people to know. 'Um. She's a little shorter than I am. Long brown hair. Sort of hazel eyes. She's really clever - gets top grades in every class. Um.'

'Sorry, I should have clarified it,' his father said, rolling his eyes. 'I didn't want her vital stats. Why do you _like_ her?'

'Oh. Well. Because she's Hermione.' Draco shrugged. 'I just look at her and - it's like someone hotwires my brain. It makes no sense...but, say, if you put her in a line up with the rest of the girls I know, it'd be like looking at a row of light bulbs, but only one is working. Plus, she always says what she thinks. Really sarcastically, too.'

'Ah. You're a masochist.' His father winked at him.

'Evidently.' Draco slumped down in his seat. All the tea was gone.

There was the sound of a door opening, and Sirius entered.

'Hi, you sexy thing,' he growled. 'Oh, nice to see you, Draco.' Draco nodded at him, too emotionally drained to even snigger.

'How are you going with the whole Lupin thing?' Sirius asked, reaching out for Lucius' hand and kissing it. Lucius blushed.

'Sirius, Draco was just talking -'

'About it,' Draco cut him off. He widened his eyes at his father, hoping he'd get the message that the Hermione issue was a strictly off-limits outside the two of them. Thankfully, Sirius had scooted over to sit next to Lucius, and seemed to be keeping him amply distracted.

'Well, I mentioned Lupin's tattoo to Snape, in passing,' he replied. 'He seemed very interested - dilated pupils and all that. Plus Snape had a boner in Chemistry, which was almost straight afterwards. I don't think the two were unrelated. But aside from that, I haven't had a chance to talk to Blaise yet.'

'Well, that sounds promising,' said Sirius, looking satisfied. His father grunted his agreement.

Draco blinked at them. It seemed to be so much more effective than making a face or sneering something nasty, as his father immediately straightened up and pushed Sirius away slightly.

'Do you want to stay for dinner?'

'No, thanks. Another time, maybe. Doubtless Mum's got some lovely meatless mess a-cooking at this very moment.'

As he walked down the stairwell, he mentally added: And I realise all that's on your menu tonight is each other. Yuck. Not only did both his parents have far too active sex lives for such massively old people; they were more active than his own. How tiresome.

~

Blaise finally found Ron three days later.

He was behind the wheely bins, and was clearly too stoned even to stand.

'That's just the bloody limit, that is,' she snarled.

Harry said he'd tried talking to Ron so often that there were no words left to say. Lupin had approached Ron the day after his discussion with Blaise and Harry.

'He told me to go away, and no, that was not quoted verbatim,' was what he'd said.

Blaise, for one, was sick and tired of this softly, softly, catchee monkey approach. If Ron wasn't going to do this for himself, then he was sure as hell going to do it for Harry.

She yanked Ron up by one hand, ignoring his faint mewlings of protest. She was meant to be in French, but she was sure Lupin would understand if she missed his class. As for Binns, if he even noticed his students, Ron was hardly flavour of the month as far as grades went anyway.

She briefly considered hooking Ron's arm around her shoulders and dragging him, but that treatment was too good for the vacillating, pathetic loser.

'You either walk,' she threatened, 'or I will find a very, very sharp stick and do things with it to ensure that you never walk again, regardless of whether you want to or not.'

Clearly the threat triggered something deep in the depths of Ron's brain as yet not smoking and flying, for he opened his eyes and began to shuffle along, albeit at a pace OAPs would have regarded as a bit on the slow side.

Occasionally poking him in the side, Blaise coerced Ron into walking the full distance to her house. As they stopped at the door to allow Blaise to unlock it, Ron looked around blearily.

'This isn't my house,' he stated.

'Well done, sonny jim,' Blaise said caustically. She pointed at the hall. 'Get in.'

She pushed him onto a sofa and began rummaging in his pockets. Ron giggled feebly. Blaise didn't even bother explaining that she was as far from feeling him up as she was from buying a Westlife album. Soon enough, she found what she was looking for.

'Hey, that's mine!' he protested as she pulled the drugs out and made off with them, in the direction of the bathroom.

'Oh, yeah?' she growled. 'Well, Harry - he's _mine_.'

She flushed the hash down the toilet, then returned to the living room to take a seat and wait for Ron to return from whatever astral plane he was temporarily inhabited. If she had her way, it would be his last visit.

~

As Sev repaired to the Leaky Cauldron, he tried to decided whom he was hoping to see. Obviously, Marv owned the joint, but Remus quite possibly would call in for a drink. He remembered seeing him there before, and wondered briefly if he realised Marv was its landlord.

However, the bar was deserted - not surprisingly, at five p.m. on a Wednesday. Sev took one look around, and turned to leave again.

And walked straight into Marv's arms.

'Sev, turning up like a bad penny, I see,' Marv commented, imperturbable as always, as Sev fumbled to extricate himself, flushing madly.

'Are you coming in?' Marv asked, brushing past him.

'No, that is, I -'

'Okay,' said Marv equably, and disappeared inside.

Sev, manically brushing off his trousers for no apparent reason, stared at the green door, frowning. Well, he couldn't very well just leave it at that, could he? A small part of him protested that yes, he certainly could if he wanted, but Sev didn't like what it was implying and promptly bound it with masking tape. Theoretically, that is.

By the time he had re-entered - and earned himself some odd looks from the punters in the process (although not very odd - this was a bar, after all, and alcohol is not known for increasing people's skills of coherence and rationality) - Marv was behind the bar. His back was turned, and he was reaching up to a top shelf for a bottle containing something shockingly pink. The light glinted off his clenched, denim-clad buttocks (which Sev was _definitely not_ checking out) and he noticed that he was no longer a skinhead. His shaved skull was sporting a light crop of dark brown hair and from behind he noticed that he looked disturbingly similar to Remus.

Feeling faintly blasphemous for thinking that thought, Sev almost made a second, and potentially final, exit. However, Marv chose that exact moment to turn around and start vigorously brandishing a cocktail shaker for a customer. Sev gulped at the image. The bright light now arced off his picture-perfect teeth and snub nose, long neck and cadaverous cheeks. No, this was not Remus.

He tripped forward as Marv tipped the cocktail into a glass and presented it with a flourish to the recipient - a young girl with long blonde hair and a figure like a wire clotheshorse. Sev's expression darkened as Marv tipped her a wink, and he hurried to the bar.

'What can I do you for, sir?' Marv inquired, brimming with polite indifference.

'Cut the crap, Marv,' Sev snapped. He leaned forward, grabbed Marv by the neck to pull him closer and kissed him soundly.

~

Hermione wandered thoughtfully around the floor of her favourite shop, a locally-run bookstore called Flourish and Blotts. She was debating the merits of the newest David Gemmell against a huge history tome that she'd been waiting for ages to come to paperback, as it would be cheaper. She was carefully not thinking about Draco, or Black, or whatever the hell he called himself.

She hadn't wanted him to realise something was wrong, because technically there shouldn't _be_ anything wrong. She couldn't blame him for her own foolishness. However, she had a feeling that her icy politeness - in fact, it was nearer to a glacial silence - had not gone unremarked. Draco was anything but stupid. She hoped that he'd just put it down to her resentment at being beaten up - or any other excuse that he could devise - and move on.

It wasn't hard for her to detach herself from her emotions, even in such a distracting setting. She'd been doing it all her life. She didn't understand how people let little things like falling in love - or rather, its associated angst - get to them. Like heartbreak, and idiocy, and the unrequited part. Sure, it wasn't nice, but why worry, when you could buy a book that would instantly transport you to one of a thousand different places where your problems didn't even exist?

Still, it would be nice, just for once, not to have to do that. But Hermione was pragmatic. The world wasn't perfect, and she'd have to learn - again - the lesson that fancying someone who didn't fancy you was just too bloody dangerous for ordinary mortals, who had nothing to fall back on. Except books.

Hermione nearly dropped the books she was carrying in disbelief at the sight of an all-too-familiar blonde head, bent over an open book in the art alcove. Oh no, not _here_ , of all places...

'This isn't a library, Black,' she sniffed. 'If you want to read the book, you should buy it.'

Draco turned around slowly and regarded her with his slate-grey eyes. He blinked - twice - and pressed his hand to his chest in an over-played expression of shock. 'My god...Granger...you _complimented_ me?'

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him. 'Did you sniff glue recently or something?'

'You think I can _read_!' He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. 'Oh, my lord, I'm just so touched! Thank you! Thank you! THANK YOU!' At this last, he sank to his knees in mock-ecstasy.

Hermione crossed her arms - with difficulty - and shot death-ray glances at the staring customers. 'You're embarrassing no one but yourself here, Black.'

Draco rose to his feet in one fluid motion. 'I was just looking at the pretty pictures,' he said innocently.

Hermione peered closer. 'Van Gogh, huh?'

'Yeah. Someone I know likes him, and they have reasonably good taste, so I decided to check him out.'

Hermione frowned. 'I never knew Greg and Vinnie were into art.'

Draco looked on the verge of saying something, but then thought better of it. 'What books have you got there? Jeez, are you going on some sort of spree? There's, like, four books here!'

'Yes. Unlike you, I don't measure things by how many pints they cost.'

'That was unfair,' Draco said in a low voice.

Hermione knew it was. It didn't stop her being annoyed, though. 'Yeah, well, the point is moot. I can't afford them all, so I have to choose one.'

'Why don't you just hang around reading them?' Draco suggested.

'Oh, yeah. Great idea! And then when someone asks me what I'm doing, I'll say I'm looking at the pictures.'

'Sounds foolproof to me.'

Hermione rolled her eyes, and started to walk away, hoping he would go away soon and leave her in peace to make her decision.

'Here, Granger.' Somehow he had managed to sneak up on her without her realising. She could feel his warm breath on her ear, and shuddered away. 'Lemme see those books.'

Against her better judgement, she handed them over. Her better judgement sat cackling as he danced off, the books tucked firmly under one arm. She hurried after him, catching up with him at the till.

'Hey! What are you doing?' she demanded angrily.

'Paying. What does it look like?' He passed the stack of books to the shop girl, who began ringing them up.

'You can't do that!'

'Watch me.'

'No, no! Excuse me, stop scanning those books, please!'

The shop girl gave her a scathing look, and said, around her wad of gum, 'The gentleman is buying them.' What she didn't say, but what was clearly implied, was the term 'you nutcase'.

'Black!' Hermione's upbraiding fizzled into nothing. It was clear that the shop girl, who was avidly watching the mounting total, was not going to help her. She couldn't believe the nerve of Black - buying books...

...Well, when put like that...

She turned on her heel and stormed out of the shop.

She was leaning against the façade when Black emerged, looking undeniably smug.

'Are you satisfied?' she asked angrily. 'That was the only copy of _Les Liasons Dangereuses_ I could find!'

He just looked at her, blinking slowly. 'I bought them for you, you twat.'

For some reason, this made her even more incensed. ' _Why?'_

He shrugged, and, inexplicable, blushed. 'Just wanted to.'

'You 'just wanted to' shell out fifty odd pounds for no reason?' she repeated incredulously.

'If it's the money you're worried about, you can pay me back,' he snapped.

'Don't you get it?' she snarled, leaning in closer to prod his chest. 'I don't _have_ that kind of money!'

'Fine.' He shrugged. 'You can pay me back some other way.'

'Like how?' she asked, crossing her arms.

Draco tilted his head back, so that his hair slid off his face. Hermione forced herself to look at the smooth line of his throat, and his jutting Adam's apple, and feel nothing.

He set the back of books on the ground. Hermione watched him warily, wondering what the hell he was going to do to her, and why on earth this was happening. She'd never _asked_ him to buy her anything.

Draco stepped closer to her, so that they were a breath apart. Hermione felt her heart begin to beat in great, irregular bounds. He regarded her speculatively, and she was reminded of the scientific way he'd use to look at her in the beginning. He reached up a hand, and Hermione nearly stopped breathing. However, he merely took a lock of her hair between two fingers and fanned it out with his thumb.

'I suppose we could cut off your hair and sell it for wigs,' he suggested brightly. Hermione felt her breath whoosh out in one huge gush, and cringed. She'd done it _again_ \- read too far into something utterly meaningless.

Then his lips were brushing hers and nudging them apart, allowing his tongue to slip through and touch hers. One hand was still tangled in her hair, while the other slid around her waist and held her tightly to him; she could feel the jolting of his heart against her ribcage. Or maybe it was her own. Finally overcoming her shock, she opened herself to being kissed by him, dragging herself up on her tiptoes in order to press more deeply into his mouth. She kissed with hunger, and happiness, and surprise, and he responded. Her hands slid up his back, under his denim jacket, bunching on his t-shirt.

Far too soon he broke away, leaving her breathless and wanting more.

He grinned mischievously. 'But I think this is a better idea.' Picking up the bag, he hooked it over her unresisting fingers, and loped off.

Hermione looked down at the bag. Books? What did she want books for? She'd much prefer to strike another deal with Black.

By the time she came to herself, Draco was a blonde smudge in the distance, insinuating himself back into the crowds of weekend shoppers. She pressed her fingers to her lips, trying not to swallow, trying to retain the taste of him in her mouth. It was indescribable; she could get a hint of toothpaste, and chocolate, and something deeper that went beyond such superficialities - his very essence. Her common sense tried to tell her it was just his saliva she was rhapsodising about, but some other, deeper part of her knew she'd got it right for once. Her breath juddered against her fingers, and, despite herself, a smile stretched out beneath her hand.

Before her mind could start analysing the multitude of reasons - with exactly 0.2% of them positive - why he'd just done what he'd just done (and so wonderfully too), she stopped herself. Just for a moment, she wanted to enjoy what had just happened. She was content to just stand, feel and _recall_.

She made it home in a daze - a lovely, rose coloured one, and one that, when she finally returned to her usual state of mind, she was thoroughly ashamed of - and very nearly danced up to her bedroom. She flopped down on her bed and ignored the stern looks she was getting from the forbidding tower of school books on her desk. At last, when she reluctantly ceded to her body's demands to return to a mindset at least somewhere in the region of sensible, she sat up. She was eager to view her purchases, in the light of the fact that _he_ had bought them, that _he_ had touched them. Half of her scowled in disgust at these sentiments, which in the sentiments' considered opinion were the products of weakness and foolishness, but she resolutely ignored them. She'd followed their biddings to the letter for almost all her life. They owed her ten minutes to herself.

 

Hermione touched a finger to the cover of the large, bound history book. He'd gone and bought the hardback version, the one that was twenty pounds dearer. She felt a smile creeping up on her face even as she cursed his spend-thrift ways. Still, he had told her he was loaded...

She opened the cover, intending to indulge in a little illicit reading before settling down to study again. Her heart nearly leaped out of her throat to pursue an independent career in cabaret singing when she registered the hastily scrawled inscription on the first, glossy page.

 _Hermione, only you would read something this ridiculously huge_ , it ran. She could just visualise him, wearing that cheeky grin that always graced his features when he was teasing someone - her, usually. _Are you sure you're not adopted, because you could pass for the BinnMeister's long lost child. Have fun - you sure seem to get it in the weirdest ways. Love and Kisses, from your Darling, Love of Your Life, King of Your Heart, the One and Only, hereafter to be known as 'the Accused'. Or Draco. PS do NOT show that signature to anyone on pain of very extensive and agonising torture, inflicted by dint of MUCH MUCH table flicking on my part._

The writing got steadily messier as she read and towards the end of the note the words started veering alarmingly in a sort of vertical wave movement that would have caused severe sea-sickness had they taken their place on the high seas.

Hermione couldn't stop smiling.

Who knew...he had a sense of humour too. Well, she had known that all along, as a matter of fact. She'd just chosen to ignore it. Just like she'd known that he had beautiful hands...long and slim, capable of anything, but of course mainly used for drawing nastily accurate caricatures of teachers or, as he'd mentioned, flicking desks. She was feeling oddly obsessed by his hands. It probably wasn't healthy. But she'd always had a thing about hands. The first boy she'd ever kissed - a long skinny string of misery called Colin or Dennis or something - at a pre-teen disco had had awful hands. Loads of hangnails and warts, too. Probably it explained why she'd never kissed him a second time, although it had come as something as a surprise to him, seeing as how he regarded himself as something of a playa. That had been years ago now...the kisses had improved but the hands hadn't much.

That is, until Draco. His hands were the epitome of handiness. They were the kind of hands one could imagine pulling up a shelf as well as bringing one to a plateau of sensual pleasure...although preferably not at the same time. After all, mixing sawdust and screwdrivers with sex was not usually recommended, except for the extremely bored or notoriously kinky.

As for his kisses...kiss, she reminded herself. The first one had been initiated by herself, so it wasn't technically his, although he'd had a considerable part to play in it, of course. Plus it hardly counted in terms of judging technique, as the main adjudicator - that is, herself - had been far too absorbed in not collapsing from nerves to pay much attention. But it hadn't stood out as terrible - just warm, and rather soft.

 

This turn had given her ample time and sensation to be getting on with. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that this was the kind of kiss that was going to be a benchmark for the rest of her life, that would crop up every time she kissed someone else and cheerfully comment, 'Well, that wasn't bad, but when you compare it to _me_...'. It had been - on the one hand, simply a meeting of overly sensitive skin, a fusion of leaping tongues and a whooshing sensation that probably had something to do with hormones and science. But on the other hand - the imaginary, whimsical hand where most humans lived - it had been considerably more complicated than that. After all, add in hope, and expectation, and a mental acknowledgement that you quite seriously wanted to touch this person, for no reason you could define...and you had yourself the recipe for something quite dramatic. A direct passport to exploding fireworks in the head territory. A significantly increased conductivity to a lightning bolt strike equal to standing in a thunderstorm with a picnic basket of metal cutlery and no rubber hairbrush to hand. A mail order of disgruntled cherubs, who were probably disturbed from their game of poker with the archangels (Michael always cheats). In short, a shortcut to complete and utter mayhem and loss of useful things like sense and perspective and boredom. Not the sort of thing that Hermione - model student, reliable, steady, never one for doing anything dangerous or foolhardy - would ever go in for. Not in a leap year of Sundays. Not for all the bond-servant-gathered tea in China (unless they've moved somewhere where the wages are cheaper and the UN has no office). Not if she was handed the combined fortunes of Smaug, Croesus and Bill Gates.

'I like it,' she said out loud, and laughed.

~

Darkness had fallen before Blaise judged that Ron was sufficiently recovered to be in a state to take account of - as well as listen to - reason. She deduced this from his moans of pain and pleas for someone to take pity on him. She regarded him sternly.

'Hey, bucko,' she called over to him. 'Belt up.'

'Are you going to help me?'

'Oh yes,' Blaise said grimly. 'You can just call me the angel of tough love.'

'You're not going to give me my hash, are you?' Ron said, in dawning comprehension. The sort of understanding that hit dinosaurs, just before the meteor did.

'No shit, Sherlock,' Blaise returned. 'Listen to me carefully, because I'm only saying this however many times I need to in order that you will hear, understand and obey. You are never, in your life again, going to ingest, inhale, smoke, inject or otherwise consume any chemical-based substance, up to and including Panadol. Do I make myself quite clear?'

'And how are you going to stop me?' Ron smirked.

'Stop you?' Blaise shook her head. 'I'm not going to stop you.'

'Then how are you going to get me off drugs?' Ron asked in confusion.

Blaise wrinkled her forehead in condescension. 'I'm not going to get you off drugs.'

'Then who is?' Ron wailed.

Blaise leaned forward, and whatever way the light from the streetlamps hit her face, it accentuated the hollows under her eyes and the sharpness of her teeth. Ron gulped.

'Why - you are,' she hissed. She stalked over to the door and hit the light switch. Immediately, the shadows were chased away, and Ron sagged in relief.

'Let me tell you some home truths,' Blaise went on. 'As a person, I don't care about or even for you in the slightest. You're cowardly, chicken-livered and a disgrace.'

Ron squirmed uncomfortably, but Blaise continued inexorably. 'But what I do care about is people. In this case, Harry. How long have you two been friends?'

'Since first year,' Ron managed.

Blaise nodded, as if he'd just made an inane comment about the weather. 'First year. Huh. I guess you never noticed - you being his best mate and all - that he was being abused.'

'It's only been recently,' Ron defended himself. 'Since his uncle started having troubles at work -'

A mask of fury descended on Blaise's face. 'Really,' she said, in a falsely-sweet voice that set Ron's teeth on edge. Suddenly, she advanced on him like a harpy with PMS. Within seconds she had his arm in a diamond-hard grip and was twisting it up his back. He roared in pain. Abruptly, she shoved him away and he fell heavily, striking his head off the coffee table. He put a hand to his head and felt a warm sticky sensation. Blood. He looked up to where Blaise was standing, in a mixture of admiration and fear. All at once, she deflated. She grabbed his hand and pulled him upright.

'Look, what you're doing is hurting Harry,' she informed him. 'Mainly him, but probably lots of other people too. Teachers who want you to do well, if only not to have you cluttering up the dole offices. You parents -'

'My parents don't care,' Ron snarled suddenly. 'If they cared why would they get a divorce!' His voice cracked on the last word, and he bunched his fists. 'I really need something, Blaise,' he added in a hoarse voice.

Blaise looked at him, pity etching her features, and slowly shook her head. 'No. There's no easy way out of pain. You face it now, or you face it later - when it's passed underground and got twice as hot and twice as agonising. Why didn't you tell Harry?'

'Harry?' He looked at her as if she were insane. 'With all Harry's problems, you think I'd dump _this_ on him?'

Blaise's voice was as sharp as an ice pick. 'You think getting permanently stoned makes him feel better, do you?'

Ron swallowed audibly. After a long time, he spoke, and his voice was ragged. 'I'm not promising anything.'

Blaise released muscles she didn't know she had, much less known that she was clenching. 'The last thing I want is promises, Ron. Come on, let's get you home.'

~

Sev pulled back, an odd grimace of triumph twisting his features. Marv watched him lethargically.

'So what is it, Sev?' he asked dispassionately. 'Would you like a drink, or a shag? Be quick, because I've got a line of customers waiting. For both.'

Sev looked into his electric-blue eyes - so different from Remus' treacle-coloured ones. He said nothing. Once again, he didn't want to make a decision.

Marv sighed.

'Oliver!' he called, without taking his eyes off Sev. A young man with green hair emerged from the back room. 'Hold the fort for a while, will you?'

'Sure, boss.'

Gripping the bar with one hand, Marv jumped it in a fluid, practised movement. He landed lightly on the other side, like a cat, knees bent slightly. He straightened up and turned to Sev.

'Don't you employ female bartenders?' Sev asked stupidly.

Marv looked at him as though he was loopy. With the air of one pointing out an obvious fact, that in addition served as an explanation, he enunciated, 'Sev, I don't shag women.'

Sev shook his head, refusing to question this further.

'Come on, then.'

'Where are we going?'

'My place,' Marv said over his shoulder as he went through the door. He began striding down the street, but Sev was pleased to find that he could keep pace easily. They walked in silence, Marv, clearly, having nothing he wished to vocalise, and Sev having nothing he could vocalise, as most of his thoughts revolved on comparing Marv to his brother.

Marv opened the door to his flat, waited for Sev to come through, and closed it again. When he turned to face him, Sev leaned in and kissed him urgently. Marv stood passively, allowing himself to be kissed. When it became obvious that Sev was in for the long haul, he slid his hands up Sev's back, trailing a finger along the nobbles of his spine. Sev shivered and broke away.

'Do you not like having your back touched?' Marv inquired.

'I like it,' Sev said, pressing his lips to Marv's throat, and licking his way along his jaw line as he started fumbling with the buckle of his belt. Marv lightly rested his hand on Sev's back until it moved too low to reach, and then he gripped Sev's hair, tugging sharply when the time came.

Afterwards, they lay in a sweaty tangle on Marv's bed, in Marv's stark little bedroom. Sev rested his head against Marv's chest and listened to the sea-like sound of his breathing. Marv absently stroked Sev's hair, staring at the ceiling.

'Did you go to Eton?' Sev asked sleepily, recalling that the pennant was the only item of personal memorabilia in the whole room.

'Yeah.'

'Did you like it?'

Sev felt Marv shrug under him. 'It didn't bother me.'

Sev tried not to realise that he was talking to a carbon copy of himself. Did he always sound this detached, this cold?

He propped himself up on his elbows, leaning in close to Marv's face and just looking at him. His damp hair flopped forward, tickling Marv's nose. Marv held his gaze for a split second, then looked away.

'Just kiss me already,' he demanded, almost angrily, and Sev marked the tiny frown line that appeared. So. Marv didn't like to be stared at.

Hoisting himself over Marv's prone body, he settled himself so that he was lying facing Marv, one hand resting lightly on his hip, and gazed at him again.

'What?' Marv said, exasperated, flicking his eyes away.

'Look at me,' Sev commanded. Marv rolled his eyes and glared at Sev for a moment, before wincing uncomfortably and moving his hand to Sev's shoulder, his eyes along with it.

Sev was distracted from his quest - and to be honest, he didn't even know what he was looking for, so it didn't matter anyway - by Marv's exploring hand. Marv was just trailing his fingertips down Sev's side when a voice from the hall made Sev freeze. Marv, unperturbed, continued his southward journey, while Sev strained his ears.

'Marv? I'm home! Where are you?' The voice was unmistakeably male.

'In here, Peter,' Marv called, playing a sonatina on Sev's outer thigh.

The door burst open and a short man dressed in a business suit strode in. 'I called at the bar but they said - oh.' The man's jowly face seemed to crumple in on itself. 'Oh, Marv, not _again_.'

As Sev looked at the man in shock, Marv licked his tongue against his bottom lip and nuzzled his body in against Sev's. The situation didn't seem it faze him in the least - it was almost as if he did it all the time.

It was with a sinking heart that Sev realised that he probably did.


	8. Even Angels Fall

_Goodness knows I saw it coming_

_Or at least I'll claim I did_

_But in truth I'm lost for words_

_What have I done? - it's too late for that_

(Snow Patrol)

Sev rolled over and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed so that he was facing away from Marv. He placed his hands carefully on his knees, and spoke to the wall, addressing it as if it were a rather distant relation that he had received a moderately horrible scarf from, and wants to thank them without sounding completely insincere.

'I take it that's not the first time you've played out this particular scenario?' he said, his voice quiet and controlled. It made an interesting contrast to Marv's which, when he spoke, was petulant and not in the least repentant.

'I should sue Peter,' he said sulkily. 'He fucks up my sex life, truly he does.'

'Is he your boyfriend?' Sev asked.

'In the fantasy world he inhabits, yes,' Marv said. Sev felt the bed move as Marv shifted, and heard him yawn. 'Except that in my experience, having sex a couple of times because I was bored, desperate, drunk or all three does not constitute a relationship.'

'It could constitute ours,' Sev observed.

'Possibly,' Marv said neutrally. 'Except that, a, you do not call me up in the middle of the night whining that you love me and b, I could at least substitute lust for desperation. Although yes, drunk and bored could be useful adjectives also.'

Sev stood up, unclear what exactly he was doing, and started casting around the room for his clothes. He had a nasty feeling his trousers were still in the living room, in which direction the sobbing Peter had headed. He had no wish to encounter the mewling wretch, but was in a quandary as regards knowing if staying in the bedroom with Marv would be the more intelligent option. He had a feeling that it wouldn't be, in the same way as a person crossing a busy road has a feeling that yes, that is a ten tonne juggernaut thundering my way.

He knelt down to see if his socks had by any chance made their way under the bed, along with enough dust to dehabilitate a wardful of asthmatics and quite possibly the Holy Grail. He made little headway, unless he counted banging his head off the metal frame. He emerged sulkily, coming face to face with Marv, who was now lying on his side watching him with vague, scientific interest.

Sev had got out of the habit of using the majority of his brain cells when he was in Marv's company, as it was counter-productive. He had no desire to start thinking 'What the hell am I doing?' at inopportune moments. So it was with little more than motor co-ordination driving him that he reached out a hand and placed it square on Marv's firm chest. Marv looked down at it with raised eyebrows, looked up into Sev's face and away again. Sev slid his hand up to hold Marv's chin, turning it to face him. Marv's eyes skittered around the room, occasionally resting on Sev's face but skipping away again. It was like trying to catch a shadow. Sev was fascinated.

It was as easy to hold a handful of sunlight as to try and force Marv to look him in the eyes. He gave it up, not entirely sure what he'd been hoping to achieve in any case. The brain cells that could have told him were currently unavailable, been held hostage by his libido.

'Are you going then?' Marv asked. 'Because if you are I can ring the bar and let them know I'll be in to cover my shift.'

He moved smoothly from a reclining to a standing position, stretching his arms above his head. Sev couldn't tear his gaze away. Marv made for the door. In an instant, Sev was standing, his hands on Marv's hips, pushing him against the wall. Marv was wearing a mildly surprised expression, which Sev observed for a moment before kissing him hungrily.

It was too passionate a kiss to be skilled; Sev's teeth bumped against Marv's lips before he forced them open with his tongue. Marv's hands, which had been hanging loosely by his side, jerked upwards and embraced Sev; he seemed to have little to complain about, despite the cold wall behind him which Sev was shoving him against. When Sev finally broke away, Marv blinked at him.

Sev's face was flushed and his dark hair was spilling into his eyes. He bit his swollen lips before he spoke.

'Don't ring them,' he said.

~

There was to be no avoiding the awkwardness this time. Hermione sat on the edge of her seat and Draco lounged back in his, both of them conveying, by their determined efforts not to, the feeling of extreme tension. It was the sort that should have come with a warning for people with pacemakers and nervous dispositions.

Hermione was in such a state by the time English came around that she could barely focus on Miss McGonagall's lecture. It seemed to be about rabbits. Hermione had no idea why that should be a topic for discussion, unless they were studying Lewis Carroll. If they were, no one had told Hermione. She realised that her brain was rambling, and made a conscious effort to stoppit before the men (and not to be discriminatory, the women and divers representatives of minority religious, social and political groups) in white coats arrived on the scene.

Beside her, Black was sharpening a pencil with admirable neatness and diligence that would have been excessively commendable had it been directed to a rather more profitable activity - his school work, for instance. Hermione felt her concentration spiral away in accordance with the smooth twirls of shavings that Black was producing. Why he felt the need for a pencil, much less a sharpened one, in English class, and moreover when he had graduated to writing in ink over a decade ago, escaped her.

While she watched, he sharpened his pencil to his satisfaction and withdrew it from the sharpener to blow gently on the pointed tip. He then reached out his hand and crushed the spiral shavings, reducing them to so much splintered controlled-Norwegian-forest wood. Hermione felt unaccountably disappointed at this.

He saw her looking at him and raised his eyebrows at her. In doing so he stretched the skin rather disgustingly over his eyebrow bar. Something of Hermione's disgust must have reflected on her face for he scowled at her and hissed, 'What?'

'Nothing,' Hermione said with the utmost dignity.

They sat in silence for several seconds, Draco looking mildly puzzled as Hermione frowned. She was waging an internal battle, which dignity lost immeasurably.

'I think you owe me an explanation,' she said at last, in a low tone. 'For what happened the other day.'

'Oh, when I kissed you, is it?' Draco replied, not bothering to keep his voice down. Several nearby heads turned around curiously, which was most surprising, given the riveting nature of Miss McGonagall's discourse. 'Well, I reckon that's pretty self-explanatory, myself.'

He regarded her with an insouciant air and leaned back in his chair in a manner guaranteed to infuriate. It worked. Several seconds passed, as Herminone's face took on the expression often described as 'looking like a thundercloud', although it bore very little technical similarity to one.

When at last she spoke it came out as a furious mutter very akin to that of escapees of mental asylums.

'Why?'

This simple word seemed to trigger off a complicated chain reaction under Draco's skin, which rapidly turned an interesting shade of magenta. His face worked furiously, before he spat, loudly, 'Because I FANCY you. I like you, I dig you, I rate you, _je t'aime_. I only speak two bloody languages but do you want me to draw you a diagram?'

A murmur of shocked gasps welcomed his words. Miss McGonagall dropped her chalk and spent a inordinately long time retrieving it in order to follow the course of the exchange.

Hermione felt her face heat up, as if someone had sprayed a blowtorch at it.

'You only had to say,' she muttered.

'Thank you for the supremely entertaining interlude, Miss Granger, Mr Black,' Miss McGonagall interrupted, hoping her amusement didn't show on her face. 'But if you could keep the lovers' tiffs until after class, it would be _most_ obliging...unless of course we read Romeo and Juliet, when I shall of course get you to read. And please retake your seats...'

Hermione hadn't realised that she was standing. Shamefaced, she sunk back onto her chair. Out of the corner of her eye, she felt Black do the same. He sat with his arms crossed and his face set, but his flushed cheeks and quick breathing betrayed his agitation. Hermione bit her lip.

Draco heard a soft voice say 'Here' and felt something being slipped under his elbow. However, when he turned to look in Hermione's direction, she had her chair scraped as close to the desk as she could be without being cut in half, and was listening to Miss McGonagall with every evidence of rapt interest. Only her slightly pink cheeks betrayed her.

Draco retrieved a piece of folded paper from under his arm and opened it. It was torn from a copybook, and words were scribbled on it in black ink. The writer had shown a blatant disregard for the handy ruled blue lines, for the note cut through them recklessly, often at right angles.

It read: 'Yeah, I fancy you too. Twat.'

He carefully refolded the note and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He dared a glance at Hermione; her brown head was bent over her work, taking down the notes Miss McGonagall was dictating. He made a mental note to copy them from her later.

For now, he tilted back his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He looked out of the window, at a sky the dirty grey colour of a tramp's underwear, and smiled.

One section of cumulus bore a remarkable resemblance to Rodin's 'The Kiss.'

~

'I now call this meeting to order.'

Sev massaged his aching temples and reflected at the amount of cheerfulness that Bertie managed to instil into those seven words - far too much, in Sev's opinion. He couldn't think of a single phrase containing any of those words that would require such random joyfullness. The fact that Bertie had bent the unspoken rule in Sev's words regarding the amount of allowable enthusiasm one could use in boring situations made Sev's teeth ache.

And where had he picked up the gravel? Sev was sure it was severely unwise to allow a recovering alcoholic access to a potential weapon. He could see Bertie now, waving it about in an off-license - 'Give me all yer whiskey or I'll hit you with this quite small hammer!' It was completely irresponsible.

'...And Remus has had some very exciting ideas for fundraising,' Bertie boomed.

Over the next few minutes, Sev deeply considered gifting Bertie with a dictionary. Surely when he'd said 'exciting' he'd actually meant 'unfeasible,' 'ludicrous' and/or 'criminally insane'. Remus was blathering on about sales of work, slave auctions, raffles and fancy dress balls. Sev was concerned for his sanity. Or perhaps it was Sev himself who was the problem. He was clearly in vital need of his hourly caffeine fix. He started calculating how long it had been since he'd had a cup of coffee.

The most surprising thing, though, was the reaction of his collegues. They were all making sounds and moments of assent and approval. Sev felt like he was sitting at a table with a collection of nodding dogs. They had about as much combined sense as a group of felt-covered plastic canine dashboard ornaments. After a while, Sev was obliged to point out one or two nascent facts.

'You said you wanted to hold a _dance_ ,' he said, pronouncing the word with distinct distaste, as if it was a planned convention of homicidal jailbirds in a cutlery factory he was discussing. He allowed a suitable pause to elapse, until all heads were turned in his direction, then he added succinctly, 'Where?'

There was a babble of comment at this, as the lack of a suitable venue hit home.

'I have an idea,' Remus ventured.

As one, the faces of the staff turned to him, as if he was Moses and had just mentioned that he could part the seas in addition to being a dab hand with a chisel. Sev, however, couldn't bear to look at him - there was such a expression of naked passion and zeal in his eyes. It made him feel abruptly old, and tired.

'I thought we could hold it in the old PE hall,' Remus was saying eagerly.

'What, the one in the grounds?' Sev asked incredulously. 'As in, the building that got struck by lightning five or six years ago?'

Remus nodded earnestly. 'I had Sirius take a look at it - the man who fixed the vending machine and the coffee machine?' he addressed the rest of the staff. There was a wave of nods and a chorus of 'yes'es. Sev thought Bertie must be holding himself back from breaking into song and leading his teachers into an impromptu dance routine to 'It's a Wonderful Life.' Sev was beginning to see the value of having a mallet in the room. As it was, Remus was still talking, and everyone there was hanging on his words as if they'd come out of his mouth with hooks and bait attached.

'He's a trained electrician as well, and he said there was only a few basic wiring problems that are easily fixed. He's willing to donate the labour for free, seeing as its all to raise funds for the school.'

Yet again, Sev wondered what exactly Remus had done to earn such unswerving devotion from a man who was now no longer his lover and whom he'd seemed to have grown apart from as a friend. He also wondered if he wanted to know. Marv seemed to be rubbing off on him, Marv with his paucity of speech and brevity of explanation. The sex was good, but the silence was golden. Being with Marv was like being alone, only better; you had the company, but not the pressure to make small talk or even big talk. They'd not yet had one conversation about 'our relationship', their feelings for each other or even the arrangements as regards other partners, except for the slight blip on the horizon that was Peter. Sev hadn't encountered him again and Marv had said at one stage, with something approaching triumph, that Sev had scared him off. He took it as a compliment, for it was clearly intended as such.

He was jolted out of his reverie by the end of Remus' speech. All around him, faces were interested and alert. As he watched and listened with something approaching amazement, one by one people spoke up, offering their services. Binns mentioned that he knew a place selling paint at knock-down prices. Ivy said she was sure she could get her sister to donate some stock from her grocery store to feed volunteers. Marie began to draw up a rota for the cleaning of the PE hall once the wiring was fixed. Staggered, Sev mindlessly signed himself up for a cleaning shift, fitting himself in under the signatures of every other teacher.

'And I'm sure some students will be willing to help,' Remus said happily, and some of the teachers actually nodded in agreement.

Whatever Remus had, it was clearly contagious.

~

 

Seamus sat on the steps near the vending machine, morosely chewing on a Mars Bar. Beside him, Dean was agog to know how his 'date' with Cedric had panned out. Seamus was just as keen not to discuss it this side of his fiftieth birthday. He was under no illusions as to the reason for Dean's excessive curiosity - he was just making sure Seamus was safely settled, so no move would be made on him again. Seamus smiled sourly, and wondered what would happen when, in the due course of time, they both found themselves single once more. Would Dean want to palm him off on the earliest convenient gay male, just to ensure Seamus wouldn't consider eyeing him up? Did Dean not realise that he was going to do that anyway, as he fancied him and probably still would a dozen girlfriends from now?

'I really don't want to talk about it,' he said finally. 'Nothing happened and I don't think I'll see him again. Not yet, anyway.'

'I'm sorry,' Dean said, after a disappointed pause. 'I guess I just wanted -'

'For me to have a boyfriend, so you wouldn't need to worry about me any more,' Seamus finished dryly. Dean had the grace to blush.

'Yeah, I guess so,' he mumbled. 'Look, mate, if I ever was going to,,, experiment - which I won't be, but if I was - it wouldn't be with you, d'you understand? Things like that can ruin a friendship, and I like being your friend too much to risk it for - basic sexual gratification, I suppose.' He halted, appearing to have run out of words.

Seamus swallowed. He didn't think Dean would appreciate hearing that Seamus was of a completely opposite mind on this one; that he was willing to gamble a friend in order to be able to touch Dean like he wanted to, like he thought about doing when he lay awake at night. Dean didn't want to know about the frustrated tears Seamus had shed for him, for the want of him. So he did what is proper and right in cases such as these, where someone is loved too much to be told that brittle kind of truth. He lied.

'Yeah, you're right,' he said, feeling as if every word was being dragged from him with red-hot pincers. 'I - I don't want to lose you as a friend either.'

That, at least, was true. To an extent. There was a point where Seamus would be happy to trade in their friendship, but it wasn't a place Dean would ever get to. Unless he suffered a severe memory loss due to a sharp blow to the head. Possibly administered by Seamus and a special edition hardback copy of the Silmarillion.

'Sorted,' Dean said in relief. 'I'm going to get something from the machine, then...'

Seamus popped the last bit of his chocolate into his mouth and crumpled up the wrapper. And uncrossed his fingers, behind his back.

~

'What's with the whole Godfather set-up, Pansy?' Padma demanded. It was an accurate description; Pansy, sitting before them with her fingers steepled and a smug expression on her duck-like features, bore a passing resemblance to Al Pacino, but an even closer one to a feudal lord about to condemn a couple of errant peasants to a sound horse-whipping. She surveyed Padma and Lavender with an expression that was right up there on the edge of fiendish.

'I _know_ ,' she said, licking her lips, and sat back to survey the effect of her words.

The tone she'd used - a sort of breathy hiss - probably wasn't designed for a return of looks of complete bafflement on the faces of the quarry. Padma curled her lip, and Lavender just look confused, in a pretty way, as she always did.

'A little more definition, I think,' Padma murmured, staring at the ceiling with a hint of a grin. Pansy's next, impatient words made her smile shrivel and die.

'I know about you two,' she sneered, 'and your little _trysts_. I saw you in the Leaky Cauldron...and behind the school, kissing and whatnot?'

'You seem pretty well informed,' Padma said coolly, trying to telepathically warn Lavender not to reveal her horror at Pansy's announcement. 'Been spying on us, have you?'

'That's neither here nor there,' Pansy said, waving her hand. (And the huntsmen emerged from the shadows, carrying cattails.) 'What is the issue,' she spoke slowly, savouring her power, 'is what I am going to do about it. Or rather, what you are.'

Padma tried to exchange an incredulous look with Lavender, only to discover she'd gone white as a tree fungus, and was shaking like a rotten leaf. Padma cursed under her breath. Pansy had them now. She turned back to Pansy and took a deep breath.

'This is the twenty-first century,' she braved. 'You can't stop us -'

'Oh, I don't care if you shag every dyke in this town,' Pansy dismissed her. 'I need your help.'

'For what?' Padma asked, clenching her fists.

'You're going to help me get Black back,' Pansy replied, triumphant.

'Are you kidding me?' Padma asked incredulously. 'You saw them in English. It's impossible!'

Pansy's expression darkened forbiddingly. 'Maybe so,' she conceded. 'Although I think, if he was sure she didn't like him, that would be enough. I know him better than you. But however, you know what _isn't_ impossible? Me starting a certain rumour about two people we both know....'

Padma stared at her in disgust. She opened her mouth to retort, but Lavender beat her to it, her voice soft but certain, drawn from deep beneath her pasty, ill expression.

'What do you want us to do?'

~

Sev lay back in his bath with a contented sigh and let the warm water wash over him. He wasn't sure where the urge to bathe had come from. Well, obviously the side of him that had no wish to become a social reject reminded him to clean himself at regular and frequent intervals, but usually this took the form of quick, slapdash and - because he could never work out the timer - often freezing cold showers. But one of his aunts had given him a large flagon of blue aromatherapy bath oil (probably - hopefully - mistaking him for one of his female cousins) for Christmas and he thought he might as well use it as not. He had no girlfriend to palm it off on or anything like that.

The water had stung him with the heat at first, but he was adjusted to it and was beginning to enjoy himself when the doorbell rang.

Cursing colourfully and profusely, Sev reared from the bath like an irritated sea monster, streaming with water. He wrapped a towel around his waist and padded out of the bathroom, dripping water all over his gleaming parquet flooring in his living room. The bell rang again, insistently.

'I'm coming!' he called, adding under his breath, 'you annoying bugger, whoever you are.'

He wondered if it was Marv, but he was certain Marv had a shift at the bar tonight; either that or he was doing his taxi run, something he did for fun rather than as a proper job. It struck Sev as rather odd that anyone would actually drive a taxi willingly in the first place, much less do it for personal amusement, but then Marv was nothing if not unique. Plus he was a terrible flirt. He called it 'studying human nature'. Sev called it 'messing with people's minds' or alternatively 'spying on people when drunk or otherwise incapacitated.'

He tucked the towel more firmly around his waist and opened the door. The noise caused the person standing outside it to whirl around from where they had been observing the opposite wall with a deep and involved interest that could not have been matched had the Mona Lisa been hanging there.

It was Remus.

A very nervous-looking Remus, who was twisting his hands together and biting his lip. A very natty-looking Remus too, in a white jumper which while inevitably woollen looked relatively new, and a pair of black jeans. His short hair had been artfully coiffed by a liberal application of what smelled like Lynx gel. Either that or he was wearing the aftershave, Sev thought, feeling somewhat giddy. He speculated whether this effort was for him, and he hoped not, mainly because he was only clad in a towel.

'Remus,' he said, but it came out as a squeak, so he had to clear his throat and repeat it, feeling like a prize idiot.

'Hi Sev,' Remus said, sounding almost coy, but he sneaked a look from under his long lashes that was quite the reverse of shy and virginal. 'May I come in?'

'Sure,' Sev replied uncertainly, holding the door for him to let him pass through and closing it behind him. The hallway was narrow and Remus took advantage of the fact, or so it seemed, to brush Sev's wet chest with his arm, quite firmly.

He made his way into the living room and after a glance of confirmation in Sev's direction, seated himself on one of the black leather couches.

'I might just...ah, go make myself presentable,' Sev said uncomfortably, rather aware of the fact that the towel was slipping again and that rivulets of water were pooling in the hollows of his hips.

Remus raised his eyebrows. 'If you must,' he said, with the ghost of a cheeky grin. 'Mind you, you're fairly presentable as it is, to be honest.'

Sev gulped and blushed; the towel slid even further southwards. 'Yes, well, back in a sec,' he muttered, and dashed into his bedroom.

When he emerged, Remus took one look at him and then stared fixedly at the table. The last few minutes had offered him ample reminders of _where_ he was (in Sev's house) and with _whom_ (Sev himself). He'd had a good five minutes to become well and truly flustered at both thoughts.

The button of Sev's jeans was open and his white T-shirt clung to his damp skin. Sev ruffled his hair, trying to air dry the dripping ends, completely unaware of the effect he was having on his visitor, despite the rosiness of Remus' cheeks. Blithely, he sat down in the chair across from Remus, lolling with his legs flung over the sides.

'Aside from the granting me the pleasure of your company, is there any reason why you interrupted my bath?' he inquired lazily.

'You were having a bath?' Remus said, thinking fast so that the tempting images would not overwhelm him. He was not helped by the fact that Sev chose that moment to stretch out his arms behind his head, dragging up his T-shirt a good few inches and exposing his navel and the dark line of hair below it. Remus swallowed and looked away resolutely.

'As it happens I was just passing through,' he said. 'I'm going to a school reunion dinner...and as I was in the area I thought I'd call in and tell you your rota times for this Saturday.'

'And what are they?' Sev asked. His voice made Remus look at him once more; he was scratching his stomach and for a second his fingers dipped beneath his waistband. Remus' breath now became more uneven as his throat constricted.

'What?'

'My rota times,' Sev reminded him patiently, sticking his hands into his pockets and allowing Remus' head to clear enough to reply.

'Ten o'clock till one o'clock,' he said. 'Are they okay? We can swap them if you need to.'

'My social life isn't that hectic,' Sev laughed. 'Not at ten am on a Saturday, at least. Is that all?'

'What? Oh, yeah.'

'So.' Sev tilted his head back and regarded Remus with narrowed eyes. 'You came all this way to tell me that?'

'No, I was passing through, like I said,' Remus replied defensively.

'Okay, fair enough.' Sev thought for a moment, then smiled brilliantly, making Remus grateful he was sitting down, as otherwise his knees would not have been in a position to support him, being under the baleful influence of a brain who felt they should be all weak and watery at this point. Which they were; the cases are few when the needs of the knees outweigh the needs of other, more disruptive organs. 'Cheers.'

'I wanted to see you,' Remus blurted out - his knees, had they anything to do it with, would have cringed. Sev blinked.

'Okay,' he said in consideration. 'For any particular reason? To marvel at my beauty, perhaps - or the fact that it is gone so desperately walkabout? I reckon I left it in the womb along with my real right foot which can bend it like Beckham.'

'Huh?' Remus shook his head, unable to take this on board, as Sev's smile and his hands and his legs and his stomach - oh lord, his stomach - were taking considerable precedence. 'You're beautiful,' he added irrelevantly, not realising Sev had referred to this in the sentence he hadn't listened to.

Sev stood up. His jeans - loose as a result of the undone button - pooled around his narrow hips, in imminent danger of sliding off. Remus watched raptly, hoping that they would.

'I reckon you need your eyes checked, mate,' Sev said kindly. 'By no stretch of the imagination, up to and including Monty Python's, could you describe me as beautiful. Maybe, just maybe, if you were comparing me to a bullfrog, then yes. Although not to other bullfrogs, of course.'

He ran a hand through his hair again, the movement succeeding in dislodging his jeans even further and providing Remus with a full-frontal view of his left hipbone. With considerable effort, Remus dragged his eyes up to Sev's face - becoming a little sidetracked on his jutting collarbone - where Sev was looking down at him with a distinctly worried expression.

'You look a bit flushed, Remus,' he said with concern. 'Are you coming down with something?'

'You,' Remus uttered with a groan. Sev pressed a cool hand to Remus' forehead, making him jump.

'Yeah, you're burning up,' Sev said. 'You might be getting a fever. You should go home and rest, I think. Here, do you want a drink of water?'

'Okay,' Remus said, fearing that any prolonged contact with Sev's skin would provoke an unwonted explosion. Sev moved off and Remus quickly twisted around to watch his arse as he walked away. Once he disappeared into the kitchen, Remus sunk back into his chair and closed his eyes, trying to focus on calm, blue thoughts.

The coolness of a water glass pressing against his hand roused him, and he curled his fingers around it without opening his eyes. Abruptly his fingers touched against Sev's, and he swallowed a gasp. Quickly, he raised the glass to his lips and drank off the refreshing cold. Cold shower. Good thought.

'Will you be alright to get home?' Sev was asking, with depressingly maternal trepidation.

'I'll be fine,' Remus dismissed his anxiety with a wave of his hand. 'I just got a bit overheated, that's all. Sorry to be an inconvenience.'

'Oh, you weren't,' Sev assured him sincerely. He leaned over Remus and touched his forehead again, his thumb slipping down to graze Remus' cheekbone. 'You're a bit cooler now.' He held his hand there for a moment longer, while Remus looked him straight in the eye. This seemed to disconcert him, for he dropped his hand and stood back. Remus felt a pang of disappointment.

'I'd better go, or I'll be late,' he said. 'Thanks for the water and stuff...I guess I'll see you tomorrow.'

'Unless I get terribly sick and can't come in,' Sev suggested, sounding cheered up by the thought. Remus smiled wanly. He needed to get out of there before Sev's jeans reached a seriously high-security zone.

'I'll let myself out,' he said. Sev nodded amicably.

When Remus was gone, Sev meandered back into the bathroom and stripped, running more hot water into the bath. He stepped in, thinking very depraved thoughts about Remus' hot, flushed face and the tightness of his jeans. Baths, after all, were even more enjoyable than he had previously supposed.

~

'Come on,' Hermione cajoled. 'How bad can it be?'

'What are we measuring this against?' Blaise sulked, dragging her feet. She was dressed incongruously for her, in tracksuit pants and a black polo shirt, her rather sallow skin devoid of its usual dead-white makeup and her dyed black hair bound back in a ponytail. 'For example, its obviously not as bad as, say, living in a third world country. But on the other hand, in comparison to pretty much anything else, its pretty damn ghastly.'

'Ghastly?' Hermione rolled her eyes. 'What kind of a word is that? We're doing some cleaning, not talking about chintz curtains.'

Blaise looked blankly at her.

'Would it kill you to make an effort? For the sake of the school?' Hermione's voice had a sudden bite to it. 'We are getting a dance out of it.'

'Whatever.,' Blaise sighed. Hermione stopped dead, causing Blaise to run into her, as she'd been staring sullenly at her feet as she walked, a method of ambulation perfected by ice-cream-deprived four-year-olds the world over.

'Look,' Hermione sighed. 'If you really don't want to do this, then fine. Go home.'

'Seriously?' Blaise asked suspiciously. Hermione nodded. 'Where's the hidden catch?'

'I'm not selling insurance, you know!' Hermione exclaimed. 'There is none.' She let a strategic silence engulf Blaise, and then, as she opened her mouth to speak, added sweetly, 'I'll tell Harry you said hello, shall I?'

Blaise almost tripped over herself - in eagerness and untied laces - to catch up with Hermione as she walked swiftly away. 'Harry's going to be there?' she panted.

'Of course,' Hermione said, the picture of innocence. The one with the label below it that reads 'Picture of Innocence -What it Doesn't Look Like.' 'He volunteered. A lot of people did. Unlike you,' she added pointedly.

'I did,' Blaise said quickly. 'Just - quite recently.'

'Better late than never,' Hermione said, solemn.

'I'm surprised you could spare the time,' Blaise challenged. 'Aren't you missing vital study?'

'I scheduled around it,' Hermione said smugly. 'Come _on_.'

Mrs Sinistra was standing at the door to the PE hall, looking flustered. When she spotted Hermione and Blaise, her expression cleared. 'Ah, excellent!' she said. 'I need someone to help with the painting - how are you at it, Hermione?'

'Not bad,' Hermione said. 'I helped my dad do our kitchen last year.'

'Good enough for me,' Mrs Sinistra said. 'Come with me and I'll get you some overalls and gloves. Blaise -'

Mrs Sprout appeared at the door, wearing a mournful expression and a soapy pair of Marigolds.

'Is there anyone available for the wash-up?' she wanted to know.

'Oh, pick me, pick me,' Blaise said. 'I know how to do that, at least.'

'Jolly good,' Mrs Sinistra said heartily.

Blaise smiled grimly at Hermione, who twinkled back wickedly, and followed Ivy. Hermione raced after Marie's retreating back. They passed several of the dressing rooms, doors wide open and emitting a strong smell of Cif. Hermione spotted her Chemistry teacher in one, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the grouting with a fierce expression. Hermione giggled, and feared for the mould.

~

A few hours before, Sev was asleep with his head on Marv's chest. His regular breaths warmed the skin over Marv's ribcage. Every so often, he snuffled in his large, crooked nose. Marv stared straight ahead, looking at nothing, and mindlessly dragging his fingers through Sev's tangled hair. His other hand drifted up and down the soft skin of his upper arm, playing a concerto.

Sev woke with a start, his eyelashes brushing Marv's chest as he blinked rapidly.

'What time is it?' he croaked.

Marv held up the arm that wore his Tag Heuer on it, and squinted. 'Um...half-past nine.'

Sev sat up with a jerk, thrusting Marv off. 'Shit!' He rolled off the bed and staggered sideways in the wonderful unco-ordination of the barely-awake. He bent over and started combing the floor for his clothes.

Marv rubbed his elbow where he'd banged it off the iron bedpost. 'Where's the fire?' he asked, wincing.

'In school. Your bloody brother and his crackpot schemes...' Sev ducked down and retrieved his trousers, pulling them on so that he wouldn't have to meet Marv's eyes. There was a brief silence, in which Marv, unobserved by Sev, yawned.

'Um, Sev?' Marv asked at last. 'Why are you wearing my trousers?'

~

Hermione was togged out in a pair of luminous yellow overalls, which looked like the ones belonging to the school caretaker, over her old jeans and T-shirt, trotting obediently behind Mrs Sinistra as she led her down to the storage room.

'Now, there's newspaper on the floor, so don't worry about splashes,' she was instructing as they entered the room. 'The main thing is to get the paint on the wall, it's a base coat, doesn't have to be perfect. It's not the Mona Lisa you're painting at all, Black! Get a bit more on the brush, there's a good chap!' She turned to Hermione and handed her a roller. 'There you go. I'll be down the corridor, finishing off the hallway, if you need me.' She patted Hermione on the shoulder and swept out.

Hermione advanced into the room. Draco turned to face her.

'Hi,' she said, as a winning conversational gambit.

'Hi,' he returned, smiling. 'There's a second paint tray there for you to use.'

'Okay,' Hermione said cautiously. 'Oh, you've one wall done!'

'Yeah,' Draco said. 'If you take another one then...we have to do a second coat, I reckon, so I hope you haven't got any urgent appointments.'

'I'll just have to call Bono and the Pope and say I can't make it,' Hermione said, heaving a sigh. Draco grinned.

Hermione bent down to dip her roller in paint, unaware that Draco was watching her. He cleared his throat self-consciously and turned back to his wall.

Hermione reached up to sweep the paint against the wall, inadvertently spraying herself with droplets of paint.

'Shit!'

She put a hand to her face to rub off the spots, but only succeeded in striping herself like an Indian chief.

'Don't bother,' Draco advised. 'We've got turps, leave it till the end to get it off.'

'Oh, right. Thanks,' Hermione said.

'No problem,' Draco said, stifling a grin at her earnest, paint-smeared face.

They both turned back to their respective tasks, Draco whistling softly. After a few minutes, Hermione sneaked a look in his direction. He was crouched down to fill in an awkward corner. While she looked, he glanced up, caught her eye, and smiled briefly in acknowledgement before turning back to his work.

Soon, Hermione realised that she was whistling too.

 

~

Blaise followed a fretting Mrs Sprout down the hall into the kitchenette.

'I have someone else rostered in, but I don't know where they are,' she said worriedly. 'I must nip out for more biscuits and bread, the morning crew cleared us out.

'It's fine,' Blaise said, when she could get a word in edgeways. 'I have washed dishes before.' 'Really?' Mrs Sprout said, sounding vaguely astonished. She picked up a plate of Marietta biscuits and tipped them into the sink, which was brimful of grey, sudsy water, and slid the plate into the bin with a tinkle of breaking china. Blaise, her eyes bugging, gently nudged her out of the kitchen before she could precipitate a world war. No wonder anyone who did Biology feared for their lives. Mind, they probably learned more on-the-spot survival techniques than Amazon trekkers.

Blaise found another pair of Marigolds under the sink and donned them before wrinkling her nose and starting to scoop the rapidly disintegrating biscuits out of the sink.

'Hi,' said a male voice from the region of the door. 'Sprout told me to report for washing-up...oh, I see it.' The mountains of teacups and tottering towers of plates were a little hard to miss.

Blaise, with a handful of soggy digestive, stood stock still, her heart thumping. That voice sounded extremely familiar.

'Grab a tea towel, Harry,' she said, with admirable poise. She dumped her load and returned to the sink, draining the water and running the tap to fill it again with water that looked less like it had come from a lake in Chernobyl.

'God, how many people did they have?' Blaise asked twenty minutes later, as Harry handed her another stack of saucers.

'Well,' Harry said, leaning closer to her confidentially and unknowingly sparking off half-a-dozen complicated and quite fizzy hormonal reactions. 'I heard Hagrid was part of the first crew...'

'Oh, bitchy, Harry!' Blaise said in admiration, and Harry blushed rather shamefully. 'I like it! Again, again!'

'I meant to say before,' he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. 'Look, about the other day, with Lupin - I didn't mean to stalk out. I'm sorry.'

'No worries,' Blaise shrugged. 'I actually - went and had a talk with Ron. Sorted a few things out.'

'Really?' Harry grinned in relief. 'I'm glad you're not mad at me.'

Blaise managed not to blush, herself, then.

She lifted a soapy saucer from the water and balanced it on the rack. 'Last one,' she said in relief.

'You have nothing to complain about,' Harry said, flicking the tea towel at her. 'Drying is the hard job, it takes twice as long.'

'If you didn't waste your time chatting about it you'd have it done,' Blaise said idly, stripping off her gloves.

'Fine, I won't talk at all,' Harry said, pretending to sulk.

'I didn't say that,' Blaise retorted. 'Here.' She whipped the tea towel out of his hands and dried the plate in a few seconds, adding it to the gleaming pile on the rickety table. 'Now.'

'Sweet, you feel for it,' Harry said gleefully, and Blaise opened her eyes wide, realising she'd been played. She reached over to slap his arm, and ended up slipping on a splash of soapy water instead. Her feet went from beneath her, and she shut her eyes, preparing herself for the impact that never came.

A pair of arms were about her waist, steadying her and setting her on her feet. She opened her eyes and looked into Harry's concerned green ones, a few inches away.

'Are you all right?' he asked.

'Fine!' she said shakily, and feeling like an idiot. 'Just slipped, that's all.'

He didn't move away, however; she could feel the edge of the sink behind her, and curled her fingers around it for support. Harry moved closer as she leaned against the sink; she could feel the warmth of his body radiating through her thin T-shirt. His hands were still resting on her waist.

'You have gorgeous eyes, you know,' he said, his voice husky.

'Really?' Blaise asked in surprise.

'Yeah...a sort of marine blue. I've never seen blue eyes that dark,' he said, peering in closer. She could feel his breath on her face. It was warm, and smelled faintly of mint Listerine.

Carefully, he moved one hand up her waist to her arm, and from there to rest his fingertips lightly on her exposed collarbone. Blaise shivered at the long-awaited contact. She could feel his leg pressing against her knee, firmly but not insistently. She shifted so that it moved to brush her inner thigh. His face was a hairsbreath from her own. She brought her hand up to touch his cheek -

'Here at last, lovies!' Mrs Sprout's voice floated in from the hall. Blaise and Harry sprung apart, the latter looking at his feet and blushing, the former glaring in the direction of the door as if hoping it would spontaneously combust. 'Cor, but that took a while. Got some bickies and a few sliced pans in the end, though...'

She bustled in, setting out her purchases and ignoring the murderous looks she was receiving.

~

Sev knelt with his head under a bench, scrubbing fiercely at a particularly nasty patch of mould that was refusing to shift. It had been quite comfortably ensconced there for the last half-decade, spawned many new generations of little mouldinis, and was now the sole survivor of a huge mould clan that Sev had, in the last few hours, totally exterminated. It was determined to put up a good fight before yielding to the inevitability of a wire brush, and in the meantime, Sev was developing a severe muscle cramp.

Remus had been standing in the doorway, watching his rear, for a good ten minutes before Sev registered his presence. This was occasioned by considerable pain, as Remus chose to address a 'Hi, Sev' to him at the same moment he was withdrawing his head from beneath the bench, causing him to look up instinctively and as a result whack his head off it.

He sat back on his haunches, clutching his head in pain, while Remus hastened forward.

'Are you all right, Sev?' he asked.

'I have a hump from scrubbing floors for three hours and now got a possible concussion. Yeah, I'm flying it,' Sev said mordantly, pain not predisposing him to be particularly civil.

'I reckon you can leave it now, this place is sparkling,' Remus commented.

'It's not,' Sev contradicted him. 'Look at that mould under there!'

Remus knelt down beside him, and peered in the direction of Sev's finger. He frowned, and looked closer, before sitting back.

'I hate to have to tell you this, Sev,' he said seriously, 'but there's _nothing there._ '

Sev's face took on an affronted expression. He gestured expansively at the spot of mould on an almost inaccessible angle of grouting. 'Can't you see it?' he demanded. 'Look! It's winking at me!'

Remus raised his eyebrows, but refrained from commenting. Sev glared at him, clearly hearing what he wasn't saying.

'Are you going to help me, or just watch?' Sev asked grouchily.

'Um, watch, I think,' Remus replied, smiling.

'Fine then, get out of my way,' Sev commanded, disappearing beneath the bench again. Remus sat down on top of it and swung his legs up so that he was reclining just over Sev's head, with an ideal view.

After several minutes' hard work, Sev withdrew from under the bench with utmost caution - to avoid thumping his head again - and tossed the wire brush into the bucket of scummy water.

'You're very - house-proud, aren't you?' Remus ventured.

'If you mean fanatic, say fanatic,' Sev snapped, wincing as his muscles protested vigorously at being stretched. 'Ouch, I have some crick in my neck.'

'Sit down.' At Sev's suspicious look, Remus rolled his eyes. 'Sit down and I'll give your neck a massage. It's the least I can do - you didn't clean this place, you sterilised it. You could give birth here - or eat off the floor.'

'Preferably not all at once,' Sev murmured, sinking onto the bench beside Remus and immediately releasing all his tensed ligaments, so that he lolled like a rag doll. His eyes fluttered shut, and he didn't make a sound when Remus nudged him so that he was facing sideways, his cheek pressed against the welcoming coolness of the wall.

Remus' fingers dug into the soft skin of his neck, expertly arraying themselves along the pressure points with his thumbs unerringly seeking out the sore spots just above Sev's shoulder blades. He moved them in slow rotation, pressing and squeezing the skin until Sev was almost weeping with relief. At last, the fingers stopped moving, but remained in place on his shoulders. Sev slumped beneath them, feeling the chafed, relaxed skin of his shoulders and neck settling into more comfortable alignment. He flopped his head back and around and smiled at Remus, his dark hair sweeping across his forehead and into his eyes, making him blink.

Remus appeared to be having some trouble breathing, and his hands had not moved, except that they were now encircling his neck, the tips of his fingers stroking the downy indent below his ears. Sev stared at him, a little unnerved. Remus reached a hand up and brushed the hair out of his eyes, lingering too long against the skin.

'Cheers,' Sev managed, as Remus' other hand moved down his chest, the fingers hooking into the space between his shirt buttons.

An amused cough interrupted Remus' explorations, and Sev couldn't decide if he felt relieved or disappointed. He twisted his head. Blaise Zabini was standing at the door, wearing a carefully blank expression.

'We've started making sandwiches, sirs,' she announced, feigning an intense interest in the ceiling as they both came to their feet, clearing their throats uncomfortably. 'If you're - ahem - hungry, that is.'

Sev mumbled, 'Actually, I'd better get going.' Before Remus' mouth had formed a protest, he had slithered past Blaise, and was gone.

'Don't say it,' Remus said weakly, as Blaise's face twitched. 'Just don't.'

'I'm as silent as a roomful of post-concert Metallica fans,' she promised. He was almost at the end of the corridor when she added, thoughtfully, and quietly, 'Or at least as temporarily hoarse.'

And she grinned, a little.


	9. My Bad Reputation

_It's a long way down_

_On this roller coaster_

_The last chance streetcar_

_Went off the track_

_And you're on it_

(Alanis Morisette)

When Draco had completed two walls, and Hermione was half-way through finishing her last one, he dropped his roller into the tray, limbered his muscles like a cat, and announced, 'I'll go see about some food for us, shall I?'

'Good idea,' Hermione agreed, distracted. She heard his retreating footsteps, and, glancing around, saw that he was gone. Determined to finish her section before he returned, she splashed her roller into the paint, thrusting it against the wall with reckless abandon. She covered it with broad, sweeping strokes, shaking her head every so often to try and dislodge the irritating strands of hair that were adhering to her hot, sweaty face.

She didn't hear Draco come in; the first warning she had of his presence was a pair of cool hands brushing against her cheeks, gathering up her errant locks and holding them at the back of her head while she finished her painting rather more carelessly than she would have done otherwise. In her defence, the feel of his almost-icy hands against her flushed skin was distracting in the extreme, and it was only brilliant self-control that prevented her from collapsing backwards onto him and begging him to ravish her. Such a course of action could never, even by the most liberal of commentators, be called sophisticated.

At last, she dropped her roller and declared 'Finished!' in triumphant tones. She turned around; Draco removed his hands from her hair and it sprung forward, the humidity of her skin having reduced it to ringlet status near her face. He remained standing in front of her, with an unreadable expression.

'Just checking - oh, you're finished!' Mrs Sinistra exclaimed. 'Well done, chaps - no need to do a second coat, we have more people in to do that. Have a bit of grub before you go, though - oh, you got some, I see. Jolly good.' She ducked back out of the door, humming.

'I suppose we'd better clean ourselves up before we eat anything,' Hermione mused. 'Did you say there's some white spirits around the place?'

'Yeah...hang on.' Draco disappeared out the door again and reappeared bearing a couple of grimy rags and a half-full bottle of turpentine. He wet one rag and handed it to her, and them both seated themselves awkwardly, newspaper rustling beneath them.

Hermione scrubbed at her hands, which were uniformly covered in splatters as far as the rolled-up sleeves of her overalls, forming a natty polka-dot pattern. Beside her, Draco did the same. As a somewhat more refined painter, he'd managed to get less paint on himself than on the wall, and was finished while she was still rubbing the web of skin between her thumb and index finger, where an extraordinary amount of paint had lodged.

'Here, I'll do your face for you,' he offered, and, lacking a better option, she acquiesced, handing him her rag. He carefully bunched it up and soaked it with turps, then shuffled closer to her. Placing one hand on her shoulder to steady himself, he moved his head until it was tilted very near to hers. Hermione tried vainly to keep her breath from speeding up. With the utmost precision, Draco dabbed at her stripes, rasping gently in a circular motion.

'You do know you were meant to put the paint on the walls, not take a shower in it, don't you?' he remarked. Hermione stuck out her tongue as he bent forwards. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her, and very nearly passed out. Instead, he merely daubed at her nose with a rag.

'It always gets on my nose,' she said in resignation. Draco smiled and refrained from mentioning the complete and utter lack of paint there, either before or after his ministrations. He edged closer, his hand gripping her shoulder more tightly, and dabbed gently at the soft hollow just below her ear. Hermione shivered slightly.

He withdrew and capped the bottle, setting it to one side, and pulled the tray of food towards them. It held a veritable feast; the best of own-brand Tesco's orange and a pile of wilting sandwiches.

'What's on them?' Hermione asked, looking dubious.

'Half ham and cheese, half ham, cheese and pickle.'

Hermione made a face. 'Do you like pickle?'

'No, do you?'

'Nope. I mean, does anyone? It's like the gherkins they put in McDonald's burgers. Why? Does anyone actually go in there thinking 'ooh yes, I'd just love a limp slimy slice of manky vegetable on my basically-cardboard calorie-infested item of junk-food?'

'I doubt that the people who regularly eat there think much about calories, so, no, probably not.'

They both stared at the pickle sandwiches in disgust. Hermione stretched out a finger and nudged them to one side, wearing an expression that the uninformed observer could be forgiven for mistaking as one borrowed off the chap in Sellafield who sticks his hand in uranium for a living.

They ate their way through the other half of the sandwiches, washed down with overly-sweet orange drink. The pickles didn't look any more inviting than they had a quarter of an hour before, and the bread was curling in the heat.

'Appetizing,' Hermione murmured, then added generously, 'You can have all the rest.'

'Thanks a million,' Draco said. He leaned forward to prod a protruding piece of pickle, then jerked back as if stung. He carefully wiped his finger on Hermione's sleeve. 'Yuck, pickle germs.'

'I don't want them!' Hermione said in horror, tapping her hand against her sleeve and then rubbing it off Draco's shoulder with exaggerated care.

'No returns,' she added, not moving her hand.

They sat there for a moment, with crossed legs like children, their knees touching. There was a tense silence that nearly twanged. Hermione swallowed, and just before she went to take her hand away Draco reached up with one of his own to twine a lock of her hair between his fingers. His pupils were tremendously dilated, and his face was glowing. Hermione felt as if her skin had suddenly become several sizes too small; with a huge effort, she slid her hand up to cup the side of Draco's jaw.

It seemed to take hours for their faces to jerk into position; at last, Hermione could feel his breath - with a faint tang of orange - warm on her upper lip, and shut her eyes. His lips brushed against hers without opening, until Hermione, unable to bear it any longer, opened her mouth, moaning softly as his hands scrabbled against her back. He drew her closer to him, trying to fuse the rest of their bodies as completely as their mouths. Her hands were about his neck, he was embracing her fiercely, and their legs jumbled together, ignored in the general rush.

At the door, Padma bit her lip and turned to Lavender, her eyes wide and sorrowful.

'We can't do this,' she said.

Lavender's face was white and set.

'We have to,' she said.

~

Blaise buttered bread like a fury; beside her, Harry slapped down slices of ham and cheese with careless haste. Every so often, Mrs Sprout would insert a pickle into the slapdash sandwiches, all the while wearing a faint but distinctly evil grin.

After what seemed like an eternity of sandwich-making purgatory, Mrs Sinistra stuck her head around the door. 'Here's your next victims, Ivy,' she said, with all the cheerfulness of someone who wasn't in danger of developing a RSI from working in a butter-spreading _Gleichshaltung_ -style production line.

Terry and Parvati emerged from behind her, looking rather apprehensive. Parvati was wearing a very short, metallic and inappropriate skirt, and was currently using it as a hand-towel as she wiped her hands on it nervously. It was the right size for it, at least.

Blaise dropped her buttery knife with a clang; it rebounded off the table with an ominous clang and hit her on the foot, coating her shoelaces with yellow globs. Too desperate for freedom to care, she grabbed Harry's arm and hissed, 'Let's get out of here, before she thinks of something else for us to do!'

Harry nodded grimly and they made a break for the door, dashing past Terry, who was timorously inquiring if the butter was low-fat. Only when they had reached the relative safety of the schoolyard did they breathe easily once more. Then they started to laugh.

Pent-up lust, tension and irritation at Mrs Sprout's incessant, politely-couched demands broke over them in a wave of mirth. Blaise leaned against the wall, her hands on her knees, laughing for all she was worth. Beside her, Harry clutched his stomach, the cuffs of his over-large, long-sleeved t-shirt flopping over his knuckles. In slow motion, the collar of his shirt slipped to one side, revealing a large, angry bruise below his collarbone.

Blaise stopped laughing. She reached out her hand and gripped Harry's arm, pulling his shirt taut and baring the bruise in all its tawdry glory. Harry looked down at it, his snickers spiralling away like a dead spider down a plughole, and swallowed. He glanced back up at Blaise, whose eyes were burning with rage.

'Who?' she managed.

'My uncle,' Harry said, his voice controlled and small. 'It's only been recently - since he lost his job at the drill factory. I don't think he can afford to support me and my cousin any more...things aren't great at my house. Money's tight, everyone's worried. I suppose - he has to take it out on someone.'

'That's a damn bloody stupid thing to suppose!' Blaise burst out. 'No one has the right -'

'Look, I just have to survive it for a few more months!' Harry interrupted. 'I qualified for a grant at uni, I have a job lined up for the summer...when school ends I can leave, I never have to see them again. I'll be fine. You don't need to worry about it!'

'But I do,' Blaise said, in desperation. 'Oh, Harry.' She tightened her grip on his arm. 'You know I'll always be here for you, as your friend -'

Harry's face twisted. He shook off her arm as if it carried a contagious disease. Blaise started at him, shocked.

'I don't want to be your _friend_ , Blaise,' he snarled. 'Jesus!'

Words seemed to fail him, for he broke off and merely scowled at her, face thunderous, before turning on his heel and stalking off, leaving Blaise reeling.

A polite cough from behind her made her spin around. Black was standing there, one eyebrow cocked and his arms crossed.

'Hermione said to tell you she had to leave,' he said. Her expression remained blank. 'Hermione...message for you...anyone home, Zabini?'

'What just happened there?' Blaise demanded.

'From where I was standing, it looked like you told him you wanted to be his friend,' Black said, looking superior. Or at least more so than usual, which was quite the accomplishment.

'So why did he storm off?' Blaise almost wailed.

'Don't you get it?' Black asked incredulously. 'There he was, thinking he was getting somewhere - probably - and you as good as tell him you don't fancy him! What's a chap supposed to think?'

'But I didn't say that!' Blaise, frantic, began to wring her hands. Black considered her, his head on one side.

'I don't think it really matters what you said,' he replied. 'What matters is what _Harry_ thought you said.'

'Shit!' was Blaise's only way of expressing her feelings at that point.

'If you want some free advice,' Black offered, 'call him and explain. You have to have a really confident person for subtlety to work, and Harry ain't it.'

'Right,' Blaise said, rubbing her forehead with one hand. Black seemed to be on the verge of saying something. 'Oh, spit it out, Black.'

'I was just wondering ... this may seem a weird question, but have you noticed anything going on between Snape and Lupin?'

'Besides the fact that I caught them an hour ago exactly two inches away from snogging the faces off each other?' Blaise snapped. 'No, I haven't.'

The cantankerous tone of her voice was lost on him, however, for he merely smiled happily and said 'Cheers' before wandering off.

~

Draco was delighted to have finally fulfilled his obligation regarding the setting-up of his teachers, and was just on the verge of ringing his father and telling him same when he ran slap bang into Lavender and Padma, who were standing in the shrubbery looking serious. As he passed, Lavender rang out a laugh; Draco was too absorbed in recent events to notice that it was rather high-pitched and forced-sounding (not to mention that he had a terminal case of maleness).

'Hey, ladies,' he said genially. 'Any scandal?'

Lavender and Padma exchanged nervous glances.

'Yes,' Lavender got out at last. 'About you, actually.'

'Oh, you have to tell me now!' Draco laughed. 'Come on, the suspense is killing me.'

'We saw you kissing Hermione Granger,' Lavender said, licking her dry lips and looking to Padma for back-up. Padma was staring at the ground, currently providing as much support as a deflated Lilo. Draco raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing.

'Well - well, you know she was dared, don't you?' Lavender said in a rush, longing to kick Padma but feeling that this would be a damn sight too obvious. As it was, she was holding up the conversation, and she'd never been much of a liar. Even saying 'the dog ate my homework' brought her out in a cold sweat, and her Labrador Binky was the infamous Lothario of the town's canine population with the appetite of a goat.

'By who?' Draco snapped out, his voice brittle.

'By us,' Lavender said, feeling utterly miserable.

'I see.' Draco's tone was positively glacial now.

'You could hardly expect her to have been for real.' Padma spoke up for the first time, her tone derisory. 'She did it for the laugh. She's incredibly intelligent, why would she go for a waster like you?'

'Why indeed?' Draco observed, and shot them a smile like crystallised anti-freeze. 'Ladies, I must be going,' he said, and added, his voice dripping with irony, 'Always a pleasure...'

He drifted off, his back ramrod straight. Padma turned on Lavender, her expression livid.

'Hope you're happy now,' she spat. 'You realise what we've just destroyed...god!' She raked her hands through her hair. 'May we be forgiven, god help us, may we be forgiven.'

'Amen,' Lavender murmured, as Padma stomped off, and added quietly, 'No. I'm not happy.'

~

Draco's state of mind was as black as his name come Monday morning. He'd had the weekend to mull over Hermione's actions. Seen from the point of view espoused by Lavender and Padma, viz the fact that they had been false to the core, it seemed they had an indefensible stand-point. Every thing she'd ever said or done, since the time she'd kissed him in the gaming arcade, took on a new and sinister aspect. It seemed so obvious, now that he thought about it.

He didn't want it to be true. He believed Hermione had been sincere. But there was always a margin of doubt, no matter how much he desired to trust her with all his heart. He couldn't risk it. He also couldn't think of any agenda on Lavender or Padma's part that could have caused them to make the whole thing up; they were her friends, to an extent. So it rested on Hermione alone, the blame for this possible cuckolding. And the punishment was to be hers also, for he refused to let her make a fool out of him.

No matter that the thought of hurting her made something deep in the pit of his stomach freeze over.

So it was that when Hermione entered the Chemistry lab and made her way to her seat next to Draco, he shot her a stare so chock-full of vitriol that the smile shrivelled on her face. She sat down, set her books on her desk, took a deep breath, and turned to face him.

'Is there something wrong?' she asked.

'Should there be?' he returned like a gun-shot, flicking his nails against the tabletop. Hermione stared at his hands for a moment, before looking him squarely in the eye.

'No,' she said, with complete confidence.

He so much wanted it to be true.

But if she had been lying all along, she was lying now. He couldn't take the chance.

'That's where you're mistaken, Granger,' he said, purposely refusing to call her by her first name. She started at that, and looked at him with an expression that was equal parts anger and trepidation.

'You see,' he went on, 'you probably think things are going pretty well now, but I have to burst your bubble.' He paused, and swallowed, wondering when it had become so hard for him to speak. 'You see, that whole kissing episode, where you threw yourself at me -'

'I think the throwing was mutual, Black,' she said, her voice trembling.

'Oh, of course it was,' he said, smiling maliciously. 'I only collected on the bet I made with Greg if I kissed you properly.' He leaned in closer to hammer the last nail into his own coffin. 'You know,' he added crudely, 'with _tongues_.'

Hermione's face tightened, but she didn't speak a word. She turned jerkily in her seat and placed her clenched fists on the table. Her gaze remained fixed on the blackboard for the rest of class, although her body was shaking as if with an ague.

In English, she shot him one haughty, heartbroken look and sat down.

Next to Blaise.

~

Pansy was sitting in an empty classroom, wearing an expression of unholy eagerness.

'Is it done?' she asked.

Lavender glared at her. When she spoke, all the pink had disappeared from her voice.

'Didn't you see her in English, looking like her world had been wiped out?' she wanted to know. 'Of course it's bloody done.'

Shaking her head in scorn, she turned on her heel and walked out, heels echoing on the linoleum, leaving behind Padma and her beautiful, immobile face.

Pansy was literally gibbering with glee. Padma stared at her in disgust.

'It worked!' Pansy was muttering. 'I knew he just needed a nudge...'

'Yeah, it worked,' Padma agreed, her voice heavy with disdain. 'But you're a first-class fool. Do you ever think he'll look at you the way he looks at her? He won't.' Her voice was hopelessly triumphant. 'He'll never, _never_ look at you the way he looks at her. Now you may have killed what they had but by god, you're more of an idiot than I thought if you actually think he'd want you knowing what you did. You stupid, stupid bitch.'

She threw her head back and spat on the floor beside Pansy's feet. Pansy looked at her in shock - this wasn't the cool, dignified Padma she was used to. She couldn't have imagined Padma spitting when she cleaned her teeth, much less in public. Until now.

Padma's beautiful face was ugly in anger, a caricature of its true self. She curled her lip and fled the room.

After a few seconds of bemused cogitation, Pansy shrugged and returned to her gloating.

~

'So you see.' Hermione's voice was steady, but brittle as an ice-cream flake. 'The reason he did what he did was because he was dared. He never really liked me at all.'

'I can't believe it!' Blaise exclaimed, her face fierce, thumping her fist into the palm of her other hand. 'I was so sure...and I'm never wrong about people.'

'Sorry to break your record,' Hermione sniffed.

'Oh, I didn't mean it like that,' Blaise said, her face softening in concern. 'I just thought - oh, hell, who cares? He's a pompous little shite, and that's all there is to it. Do you want to plan some nasty revenge, like savaging his mobile phone with rulers or emailing him a virus?'

'Did you never hear the saying, if you seek revenge, dig two graves?' Hermione returned, smiling a little.

'Nope,' Blaise proclaimed. 'Although the one about it being a dish best served cold - interesting connotations with ice cream and wine and things, don't you think? I reckon that a lot of good things are served cold, including revenge.'

'I don't want revenge,' Hermione sighed. 'I want to pretend that none of this ever happened.'

'Fair enough,' Blaise acceded. 'Still bloody weird, though...'

They both started as the door to a cubicle they'd deemed empty swung open. They stared at it in apprehension, as Pansy emerged from it wearing a demonic expression and clearly resenting the lack of billowing smoke in her wake.

'Just the person I wanted to see!' she crowed. 'If it isn't our little lovesick fool...he really had you conned, didn't he?'

'What are you on about, Pansy?' Blaise asked testily.

'I was just asking Granger here if Black had told her the good news,' Pansy said. She leaned in, as if to tell them some juicy gossip, and added, in an exaggerated whisper, 'That he was dared.'

'How do you know that?' Blaise demanded, crossing her arms.

'Black told me, of course,' Pansy lied smoothly. 'I was there when Greg suggested it. We were feeling bored, you see.'

'What's the whole 'we' thing about?' Blaise wanted to know. 'You broke up with Black.'

'Really?' Pansy opened her heavily-mascara'ed eyes wide. 'News to me. Tell you that, did he?'

'He didn't need to,' Blaise said. 'You beating Hermione to a pulp kind of signposted it for the world.'

'Oh, that?' Pansy laughed. It was not a joyous or melodic sound. 'Well, god knows I wouldn't need an excuse to beat up such a pathetic excuse for a human being - but the fact is, Black asked me to.'

'What?' Blaise burst out.

'Oh yes,' Pansy reiterated, nodding vigorously. 'He thought it would make it more authentic - you know, when it came to showing the swot that he weally, weally _liked_ her.'

'I think I'm going to be sick,' Hermione said, and sprinted for the toilets.

Blaise faced Pansy, trembling with rage.

'Get out,' she growled, murder in her eyes. Pansy was intelligent enough to realise when discretion was the better part of valour, and beat it.

As soon as she was gone, Hermione emerged from the cubicle, looking wan and drawn.

'Are you all right?' Blaise asked in concern.

Hermione shook her head, lip trembling. Tears started leaking out of her eyes and her shoulders shook. Blaise hastily wrenched a handful of tissue paper out of the dispenser and passed it to her. Hermione shoved it into her eyes, and started to howl.

'Oh, Jesus, Hermione,' Blaise whispered, putting an arm around her shoulders. After a few minutes, the worst of the crying jag was spent, and Hermione raised her head, eyes red-rimmed and puffy-looking. She looked like she had a terminal case of hay-fever.

Dropping the sodden tissue carelessly onto the floor, she bent over the sink and splashed her face violently with the freezing water. Blaise had more cardboard-consistency tissue at the ready when she dashed the last of the water from her cheeks and straightened up. She smiled thinly at Blaise as she took it.

'Now do you believe me?' she asked.

~

Blaise stormed out of the toilets, determined to find Black and have it out with him, come hell or high water. However, her avenging angel mission was abruptly halted when she ran straight into the very person she'd been carefully avoiding - in a name, Harry.

She had tried to take Black's advice, and even from the side of thinking him a cruel, heartless, sadistic bastard and lower than the worms she could admit that it was pretty sound. One thing stood in her way, unfortunately - she didn't want to presume that Harry fancied her, and she was damned if she was going to find out by sacrificing herself on the altar of dignity.

In fact, she had called Harry once, but the sound of a tinny, disembodied voice telling her to 'leave a message after the beep' sufficiently unnerved her so that she was deterred from endeavouring a second reconnaissance attempt.

They both stood motionless for a moment, Blaise with her chin held so high it was surprising that it didn't hit off her nose, and Harry staring at his feet and blushing madly behind his glasses.

Blaise was in no mood to be holding out olive branches. She was still of a reckoning that it had been Harry's misapprehension that had provoked this whole situation, and much as she wanted it to be resolved, the ball was in his court. She made to walk past him, and he looked up, an anguished expression on his face.

'Don't go, Blaise,' he said, sounding utterly woebegone. Blaise firmly prevented her heart from melting.

'Why not?' she asked. 'Isn't it my turn to fulfil the 'running off for no reason' quota?'

'Blaise, please,' he said, reaching out a hand and touching her arm. Blaise stared down at it, biting her lip.

'I wanted to say I'm sorry,' he added in a low tone.

'What?' Blaise asked in surprise. This was not unreasonable; two days before Harry had got the wrong end of the stick, and if _she_ hadn't explained to him what was really going on, who had? Plus, she was frankly astonished that he'd realised he was in the wrong so soon.

'I had a chat with Black a while ago,' Harry was saying, sounding a little embarrassed, and not noticing Blaise's scowl at the mention of the Hated One. 'He pointed out a few things - quite _concisely,_ I might add - but with complete accuracy. And - well, Blaise, I'd be honoured if you were my friend.'

He looked up at her, bright green eyes shining hopefully. Blaise carefully removed his hand from her sleeve and placed it by his side once more. However, she let her fingers drift over his knuckles, watching them intently while she spoke.

'I don't want you as a friend, Harry. I have plenty of those.' She took a deep breath. 'On the other hand...I'm rather on the look-out for a boyfriend.'

'Really?' Harry's voice sounded oddly compressed, as if he was restraining himself from shouting only with the utmost difficulty. 'What a coincidence. I'm in the same boat myself. Only, I've found the girl I want.'

Blaise's heart sunk, and she snatched back her hand. Damn that altar - she could feel the sacrificial flames licking her face. Soon they were going to consume her, and all her pride along with it.

All at once, Harry's hand reached forward and firmly took hers. She looked up at him uncomprehendingly.

'She's really smart,' Harry said, a smile playing about his lips, 'but she can be quite thick at times, because I don't think she's realised she's the one. Do you reckon you know who she is?'

He was grinning broadly now. Blaise said, her voice sounding distended, 'I think I may have an idea...'

Harry's hold on her hand tightened, pulling her towards him, until their bodies touched. Blaise looked up at Harry's flushed, delighted face and felt her heart thumping so loudly that she was sure that not only could he hear it, but that it was auditioning as cymbal-player in the London Symphony Orchestra. Slowly and sweetly, Harry's lips descended on hers, light as a butterfly's wing. Blaise closed her eyes and sighed. His other hand lightly stroked her cheek -

'Miss Zabini! Mr Potter!' Miss McGonagall's irate voice cut through their romantic netherworld like a crucifix-toting exorcist with PMS. 'This is a school, not a bordello! Kindly desist at once!'

Reluctantly, Blaise and Harry drew apart a few inches. Miss McGonagall was glaring at them, her hands on her hips. Harry rolled his eyes.

'It must be our destiny to always be interrupted by teachers,' he whispered. Blaise giggled.

'I can think of worse ones,' she said. 'After all - school's out in a few weeks...'

~

Hermione had a new hobby. Black-watching.

It seemed that everything Pansy had said in the bathroom was absolutely correct. She and Black were rarely seen out of each other's company. Hermione decided that she was probably imagining the looks of utter boredom she thought she glimpsed on his face.

Blaise had decided that they could only possibly be together for the sex, and Hermione agreed with her. Pansy had all the conversational skills of a dead lemming. However her practical knowledge of all things sexual could not have been bested by Hugh Heffner.

Still, she watched him. She knew that he was no longer worthy of a single grain of her attention, yet she gifted him with bushels more than she ever had before. She saw him alter almost indefinably.

Blaise had once said that Black was the stud of the school. Hermione had never had occasion to observe this before; now she did, and then some. Girls hung out of him like he was covered in Superglue, undeterred by Pansy's dangerous stares and regular hefty kicks. He was utterly changed from the boy she had thought she'd known a little; even his colouring had frozen. His wheat-coloured hair had paled to white-gold, and his face, not flushed with mischief, excitement or malice any longer, was bored and bordering on anaemic. Hermione could only marvel at the difference between this Black and the person she'd known inside her head as Draco.

Draco was mischievous. Black was malicious. Draco was witty; Black was cutting. Draco was occasionally facetious; Black was downright obnoxious. Hermione thought and thought about it, until her eyes blurred in the night and her head felt like a dormant volcano, but she could come up with no more plausible explanation for his behavioural shift than that he was a closet schizophrenic.

She was staring raptly at him one day, during break-time, as he stood almost silent against the wall, his hands in his pockets. He was surrounded by his usual posse of adoring fangirls, Pansy, Greg and Vinnie. Although Pansy made frequent reference to him and addressed a comment to him circa every five seconds, he spoke only to Greg or Vinnie, and even then with a brevity that suggested he though words were charged on quantity.

Blaise glanced at her with unease. Hermione had stated a few weeks before that she never wanted to hear the word 'Black' again, which meant that Blaise was totally unable to discuss clothes shopping with her any longer. The heartless amputation of the retail therapy section of their conversation wasn't what was bothering her, though; it was the way Hermione followed Black's every movement with her eyes, as though he was tugging on an invisible leash. Which, Blaise mused, he was - it was buckled firmly around Hermione's heart.

It wasn't healthy, this obsession they had for one another. And Blaise was convinced of its mutual nature. Black was very subtle, she had to give him credit for that, but she had his number and she clocked the way his eyes flickered over Hermione with increasing regularity, as if to assure himself that she was still there - even if no one else, including Black himself, had noticed.

'Hermione,' she said, and then, louder, 'Hermione!'

'Huh? Oh, sorry, Blaise,' Hermione said, sounding as if she'd been jerked out of a deep reverie. 'Did you say something?'

'Yes,' Blaise said, rolling her eyes at Harry, who frowned and jerked his head slightly. 'Do you have a date for the dance yet?'

'What dance?' Hermione asked, her eyes sliding away from Blaise and over to Black, then back again. She looked angry with herself. 'Oh, the one in the PE hall. Well, no. Is it necessary?'

'It's sort of an unwritten rule, I gather,' Harry offered.

'So, are you two going together, then?' Hermione asked, smiling, and looking properly awake for the first time since they'd started conversing.

Harry blushed and nodded. Hermione's smile widened, then died abruptly as a thought occurred to her.

'Yes, with Pansy,' Blaise sighed, hating the stark look of desolation that briefly skewered Hermione's features before her face hardened into a blank expression.

'Oh, well, I guess I'll go stag then,' Hermione said, with a harsh little laugh that was as abrasive as sandpaper.

'You could go with Ron,' Harry suggested. 'He hasn't bestirred himself to ask anyone.'

'That would be kind of cool,' Blaise said. 'Like a double date!' She looked hopefully at Hermione.

Hermione realised exactly what Blaise wanted to say, even if Blaise didn't. Hermione knew that what little time Blaise and Harry did have alone was invariably encroached upon by Ron. Fair enough, he was Harry's best friend, but Harry seemed to think he needed around-the-clock surveillance, even though he hadn't touched a drug in weeks. Blaise desperately needed a night free from Ron-sitting, and Hermione felt she deserved one. Besides, it wasn't like the boy she _wanted_ to go with even existed outside her own head.

'Sure,' she agreed. 'You ask him, then, Harry?'

Before Harry had even opened his mouth, however, her eyes had drifted over to Black. For a second their gazes met, and the air crackled between them. Then Hermione sighed, and looked away.

~

Minnie tapped her way smartly down the university corridors towards her group's classroom, hoping grimly that Gideon had managed to make some headway on his side of the project. Why on earth Gil had deemed it wise to put the two of them on the same team, which Minnie made it patently obvious that Gideon irritated the hell out of her, and he made no secret of the fact that he loved to antagonise her, was unfathomable. Perhaps the hostility was supposed to stimulate creativity or something, and by that measure the Gaza Strip should be producing some top-class artists in the near future. Minnie had to admit that it was somewhat true, though; she'd thought up more ways of killing him in the past fortnight then she had envisaged in twenty years of teaching sullen adolescents.

The first half of the day was taken up with Gil's lectures. These Minnie attended to with an attention bordering on reverence, despite the fact that Gil had a stance like a pregnant woman when he wasn't scribbling on the flip chart. All too soon, it was time for them to split up into their groups and go their separate ways to work on their projects.

Huffing loudly, Minnie shot an enraged-lioness glare at Gideon, which he didn't deign to notice. He was carefully capping his biro - _her_ biro, she mentally corrected herself. The same one he stole every time. The thought only served to infuriate her more.

Minnie lingered on until the last possible moment to catch Gil on his way out. This entailed, of course, that Gideon remained too, regarding her from under his permanently half-lidded lashes with a faintly amused expression. At last, Gil slotted the last leg of the flip-chart stand into place and made to leave.

'Ah, Minnie and Gideon, my two best students!' he acknowledged them. Minnie glowed. Gideon glowered. 'How are you going with the project?'

'Well, my half is nearly done,' Minnie said pointedly, shooting a nasty look at Gideon.

'Mine's finished,' Gideon yawned. Minnie looked daggers at him.

'Ah, excellent, excellent,' Gil said, looking like he wanted to rub his hands together but was hampered by the flip-chart and his laptop case. 'I always knew you two were extremely compatible...I shall be expecting great things from you! But for now, adieu!'

He blew Minnie a kiss on his way out, and she blushed hotly. Gideon stared at him incredulously.

'God, but that man is a git,' he pronounced, ruffling his long, reddish-gold hair. Minnie turned on him, glaring.

'You're just jealous!' she sneered.

'Of what?' Gideon asked in genuine surprise. 'I don't want to look like a Ken doll, thanks all the same. And I can't envy his personality, because he doesn't have one.'

'He -' Minnie began, outraged, but then she snorted. 'Doesn't.' She couldn't prevent a ripple of laughter escaping her lips. Gideon stared at her, looking mildly astonished.

'Mind you,' he mused, leaning his elbows on the table and cupping his face with his hands, so that he looked about five years old, 'he does have a bloody gorgeous wife.'

Minnie sat down abruptly. 'He's married?'

'I thought you knew,' he said, his tone accusatory.

'No, I didn't,' Minnie snapped. She ruminated for a moment, then looked up at Gideon's flashing hazel eyes. She spokes slowly, as if trying not to laugh. 'Was she paid?'

'He bought her,' Gideon declared. 'Two camels, twenty-four goats and an imaginary oasis.'

Minnie smiled at him. It was a bit rusty, but Gideon looked pleased all the same.

'Here's your biro,' he said, quirking a grin at her.

She took it, accidentally knocking her fingers against his. He raised his eyebrows.

'Come on, then,' he said. 'I'll clearly have to help you finish off your half.'

'Brat,' she laughed, and swatted him. And realised that she was going to end up with him. Just like that.

~

Remus announced that the fancy-dress fundraising dance was to be held on the seventeenth of March, St Patrick's Day.

'Quite a lot of the students have put themselves forward to help with the decorating. I think they feel we'd do it up like Saturday Night Fever or something,' he said, smug in the knowledge that he was closer to their age than he was to most of the seated teachers.

As soon as he was sure that Remus was finished, Sev headed straight for the coffee machine. This meant that he was cornered, held captive by a gushing froth of boiling liquid and his own inner child demanding caffeine, now! when Remus came over to him. His expression was grave.

'I need to talk to you.'

'It's a free country,' Sev grunted.

'Not here.' Remus shook his head. 'Can you meet me tonight, in the Leaky Cauldron? About six, say? Please, Sev,' he added, at Sev's moue of doubt. 'There's some things you need to know.'

'Fine,' Sev agreed at last.

They headed there together after work; Remus unnaturally silent, and Sev enjoying the walk and the lack of talking it entailed. It was almost like being with Marv.

They entered the pub, and the first thing Sev saw was Marv, serving at the bar. On spotting Sev, he remained motionless for a moment, then inclined his head ever so slightly. Sev hurried Remus to a snug seat at the back of the pub. He wasn't sure if Remus knew that Marv owned the joint, and he wasn't keen on him finding out when Sev was in the fallout vicinity.

He muttered something about fetching drinks and headed for the bar. There was a notable absence of barmen, however. A flash of green caught his eye. Leaning forward, he caught a glimpse of Oliver, leaning against the doorjamb of the backroom, being thoroughly kissed by Marv.

As he watched, and carefully didn't allow himself to think, Marv broke off and disappeared inside, returning a few seconds later carrying a coat. He said something to Oliver, then jumped over the bar. He passed by Sev, and paused. His electric blue eyes were as shuttered as ever.

He mouthed 'Have fun' before vanishing into the night.

Distracted, Sev ordered two pints from a grinning Oliver, whose chin was dusted with stubble-rash, and made his way back to the table where Remus was sitting, nervously twisting a bar mat into foamy pieces.

'What's all this about then?' he asked without preamble.

Remus took a deep breath. 'I think I owe you an explanation, about Marv and me. God knows you're hardly likely to get it out of him - I've known dead men to be more talkative.'

Sev snorted in agreement and Remus relaxed a little. 'The deal is pretty simple. Bored housewife meets rich, smooth Irish millionaire at a friend's party. A few months later, housewife elopes with said millionaire, who incidentally made his money from building high rise car parks and laundering the odd grand or two on the side. She leaves behind a broken-hearted husband, who quickly spirals into depression and later alcoholism, and a three-year-old son. The surprising part of the story is not that she produced another son to add to the millionaire's extensive illegitimate brood, but that he actually married her. Once the divorce came through.' He took another, shaky, breath. 'Now for some names. The bored housewife is my mother. The millionaire is the Irish developer Tó mas Riddle. Her first son was me. Her second son was Marvolo. The one thing we have in common is that she saddled us with equally ridiculous names. Moreover, she now has a rather entrenched cocaine habit, to match my father's malt whiskey one. That's the one thing _they_ have in common.'

He paused, and Sev took a hasty gulp of beer to prevent having to reply. He had no idea what to say. He knew Marv would never have told him this. He was fairly certain, also, that he didn't want to know. Any more than Marv would like to hear about the death of Sev's beloved mother, or about the step-father who beat him every day until Sev got big enough to fight back. Some things were better left buried. He had a suspicion that Remus was something of a gravedigger, though.

'Marv is also caught up in the whole Sirius scenario,' Remus was saying. 'He manages to get into everything, really. Remember once I told you about emotional blackmail?'

Sev made a noise of assent through the rim of his glass.

'Marv's a policeman,' Remus said, and Sev nearly choked. 'To cut a long story short, he told me about a raid planned on the Black ring, which Sirius and his boyfriend Lucius - they didn't meet on the inside, although they went there together - were heavily involved in. In return for convincing Sirius - who convinced Lucius - to turn informer he got them a short sentence. The rest of the ring got twenty years - they were keen to disable the Black ring, and it has been severely hindered for the last decade as a result. The judges were determined to crack down. It was through me that those two got out this side of their sixtieth birthdays.'

'Jesus,' Sev managed. 'Why are you telling me this?'

Remus made a surprised face. 'I thought it was obvious.' He shrugged and stood up. 'You have a choice to make. I want it to be an informed one.'

He left. Sev sank back in his chair and groaned.

'Cheers,' he said morosely, and reached over to drain Remus' glass.

~

Blaise had had a stroke of genius.

It had required a little forward planning to get her mother's permission. However, Mrs Zabini's relationship with her daughter was closer to a chummy friendship than a dependent parental one, mainly due to Blaise's enormous self-possession.

In addition, Mrs Zabini's husband was absent for six months of the year, sailing the high seas on a Norwegian trawler, and her only son was teaching grammar in the Bronx. It often got a bit quiet in the Zabini household, and for that reason the gregarious Mrs Zabini regularly opened her home and table to all and any comers. This meant that, over the years, she'd played host to a range of pets that a zoo would have envied, more loud, thumping teenagers than she cared to remember, more distant, blue-rinsed relatives than Blaise cared to remember, and, one memorable time, a bridge tramp. So she only needed a little persuading to be brought round to the merits of the plan.

Now for the difficult bit - breaking it to Harry...

She brought him aside one day, looking so serious that Harry inquired nervously if anyone had died. She laughed, and he relaxed considerably.

'Thing is, Harry,' she said, 'I had an idea. My mother's okay with it, but...you'll probably think it's half-cracked. Just hear me out, okay?'

'I promise.' Harry nodded.

'I thought that, until the end of the school year, you could come and stay with us,' Blaise said quickly. 'My brother lives in New York, and you could have his room. I told my mother about your - situation, and she really wants to help. I hope you don't mind.'

'I don't,' Harry reassured her. 'And it's not such a crazy idea, but I can't do it.'

'Why not?'

'Because I can't afford to pay you, and I'm not going to impose.' Harry's mouth made a thin line on his face.

Blaise harrumphed. 'Honestly, Harry! You wouldn't be an imposition.'

'I'd still feel bad about it,' he objected.

'You may feel bad, but you look good,' she said, raising an eyebrow in an effort to lighten the mood.

'What?' Harry demanded. 'What does that have to do with the conversation?'

'Nothing - I was just pointing it out.' Blaise shrugged. Harry blushed. 'As for the matter at hand, you're coming to stay with us. Just accept it and move on with your life.'

'Brilliant argument, Blaise,' he said, rolling his eyes. Blaise frowned at him.

'It wasn't an argument,' she said, in the tones of someone pointing out the killingly obvious. 'It was a statement of fact.'

The bell rang, and she headed for her locker, trailed by a spluttering Harry.

She looked over her shoulder and smiled sweetly.

'How do you like being henpecked, Harry?' she asked. His brow darkened, but before he could speak she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. When she broke away, he was grinning goofily.

'It's beginning to grow on me,' he admitted.

~

There had been so many volunteers to decorate the hall that even after he'd whittled out the obvious trouble-makers, Lupin was forced to divide them into two squads. One group, composed of Padma, Parvati, Lavender, Seamus, Terry and Ron were scheduled for the Thursday night prior to the dance, while Hermione, Black, Harry, Blaise, Dean and Pansy made up the Friday night crew.

The first group came into school on Friday morning sporting blisters and complaining vociferously about the DJ. No one knew who the DJ was to be, or where on earth the money had come from to hire him, but only Seamus, Terry and Ron had anything to say against whoever it was.

'We had to set up a _stage_ ,' Terry moaned, as if he'd been asked to single-handedly launch a telecommunications satellite.

'Bloody great speakers,' Seamus muttered, massaging his aching back.

The girls had come in for a fair share of the legwork, including sweeping and clearing away the newspapers and assorted painting implements. Most of their time had been spent watching the boys, though, and laughing at them.

The next day, Remus told the second group to go home for an hour and change into something 'suitable for messing about in,' as well has to have something to eat.

Hermione felt indescribably tired. She never studied on a Friday anyway, and had specifically asked to be put on the detail for that night. However, she was considering ducking out and spending the evening resting, especially when she heard that Black was to be part of her group.

It was only Blaise's enthusiasm that stopped her from flaking out. Blaise, who'd had to be forced into getting involved, was now raucously interested. Hermione didn't want to destroy that, so she reluctantly pulled on the same pair of old jeans she'd worn painting and a much-loved Mickey Mouse t-shirt her aunt had brought back from LA. It was so well-worn that Mickey looked as if he'd gone a couple of rounds with the Nothing from Fantasia; his ears and most of his round nose were faded to oblivion.

She didn't feel in the least hungry. Her appetite had disappeared in the last few weeks. Her mother had put it down to exam stress and cooked round after round of her favourite meals to tempt her. Most of them had ended up in the bin. Hermione looked in the mirror and realised grimly why crash-dieting was not to be recommended. She had dropped several pounds, but her hair was lank, her skin blotchy and she was sporting a fine crop of spots on her chin.

She grabbed a jacket and headed back to school. By the time she arrived the PE hall everyone else had arrived. She dropped her jacket in a pile by the door and headed over to Lupin, who was standing in the middle of the floor looking distracted.

'Sorry I'm late,' she said, and, when he didn't respond, tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped and whirled around to face her.

'Oh, Hermione,' he greeted her, his face relaxing. 'You're not late, everyone else was early.'

'Where do you want me?' Hermione asked.

'Um. Good question.'

They looked around the hall. One end was completely taken up with a wooden stage on which several mysterious, hulking black pieces of sound equipment were arrayed. In one corner, Dean was fiddling with a light machine; in another, Pansy was trying to turn on a flame machine. It sprung to life, and she promptly dropped it in surprise.

'I was going to say we have the equipment covered, but perhaps I spoke too soon,' Lupin murmured.

'Oh, she'll be fine,' Hermione dismissed it. 'Where did all this _come_ from?'

Lupin smiled. 'A mystery benefactor. Exciting, isn't it?'

Hermione smiled back and looked over at Harry and Blaise. They were laughing as they strung fairy lights around the banjaxed basketball hoops.

'How are you at art, Hermione?' Lupin wanted to know.

'Not the worst,' she admitted.

'Great! You can join our artistic department.' Lupin gestured at the far end of the hall, where a sickeningly familiar blonde head was bent over something held in his lap.

'Oh, I don't think -' Hermione began, but at that moment the light machine began to topple, and Lupin dashed off to rescue it or Dean.

Dragging her feet, Hermione made her way over to Draco, feeling as if she was walking down Death Row. Binns was sitting next to him, wearing an angelic expression. As she approached, she caught a snatch of their conversation.

'Do you need more glue, Draco?'

'Don't call me that!' Black snarled.

Binns looked up, his expression placid.

'Ah, hello, Hermione,' he said. Black's head jerked up, and he looked at her with the same unalloyed delight as a marine biologist at an oil spill.

'What are you doing here?' he spat.

'Lupin sent me to help with the artwork,' she returned, her tone equally pleasant. 'What are we doing?'

'Making mobiles,' Binns said, blinking.

'Right.' Hermione seated herself on the floor with a thump. 'Any particular theme?'

'Yeah, cut-out leprechauns,' Black sneered. 'So we look like a bunch of seven-year-olds. What do you _think_ , Granger?'

'So anything goes?' She tilted her head defiantly.

He leaned forward, eyes flashing.

'That's right,' he agreed, his tone low and dangerous. 'Anything goes.'


	10. Stop Crying Your Heart Out

_Lights go out and I can't be saved_

_Tides that I tried to swim against_

_Have brought me down upon my knees_

_Oh I beg I'm begging please_

(Coldplay)

Hermione sat in determined silence, her hands flying as furiously as Draco's as they cut, stuck, twined, twisted and twirled the piles of stiff coloured card, luxurious bobbins of ribbon, string, wire and fat pots of glitter, paint and tiny shiny stars, moons, circles and snowflakes that lay heaped around them. Binns was almost motionless save for when his thumb was required to hold something, or he was curtly asked to cut more Sellotape. He also found himself in the position of being the most voluble in a group of people - a unique situation for him. Both Hermione and Draco, after their initial spate of words, now worked in mutinous silence.

'How's the study going, Hermione?' Binns tried.

'Fine, thank you. Could you pass me the stars, please?'

'I'm using them,' Draco snarled. Hermione tossed her head and reached for the pot of stars at the same time as he did. Their hands grasped it and their fingers touched. The electric jolt started both of them, causing them to release the pot at the same instant. Stars spewed supernova-like all over the floor and cascaded into their laps like a miniature meteor shower.

'Now look what you did!' Hermione exclaimed in exasperation.

'What I did?' Draco shouted, indignant. 'That was your fault!'

Hermione harrumphed and attempted, with little success, to gather the stars around her into a pile. Draco stood up and a shower of stars flew out from his jeans, utterly destroying Hermione's clean-up attempt and covering her hair with them.

'Hey!' she yelled, reaching up to bat them out - a mistake, as her fingers were sticky with glue, which she managed to spread all over her hair. She jumped up herself, looking murderous. Draco caught her glare with a hundred-watt one of his own.

'You two!' Binns interjected. 'Don't move before you create any more chaos. I'll go get a sweeping brush. Please try not to commit homicide while I'm gone.'

Neither of them said anything, but Hermione grudgingly sat down again, followed, a few moments later, by Draco. With a sigh of relief, Binns evacuated.

Scowling in frustration, her hair now dotted with stars like a wannabe angel, Hermione held up the mobile she'd been working on. It consisted of a mixture of silver and green swirls of thick ribbon, hung from a four-pronged wire base. Deciding to keep design to a minimum, she had cut out pale green card in the shape of half-moons, doused them generously with glitter, and attached them to a string so that, eventually, four columns of twinkling moons dangled from the wire. It was nearly three feet long, from the top to the last twirl of ribbon. Four more lay beside her, all of the same general idea in varying colours.

''s nice, Granger,' she heard Black grunt, and whirled around.

'Did you say something?' she demanded.

'Oh, sorry, forgot you can't take a compliment,' he sneered.

'From you, Liar of the Month winner? Hardly,' she retorted, and was surprised to see him looking uncomfortable, if rebellious.

'Look who's talking,' he muttered.

'What's that supposed to mean?' she asked, and added haughtily, ' _I_ never lie.'

'But if you did, that would mean that if you said you never lie, it's actually a lie,' he reminded her. Hermione just looked at him.

'Whatever,' she said, shrugging, and laid down her mobile next to the others.

'You lied to me,' he said, apparently not about to let it die. For his own part, he couldn't believe what he was saying, but his brain seemed to have lost motor co-ordination with his mouth.

'I stand by what I said,' Hermione said. 'I'm sorry, but chocolate will ruin your teeth if you keep eating it for lunch.'

'What?' Draco said, astonished.

'I know it's difficult to face,' Hermione continued, putting on a face of false sympathy, 'but there it is. All that sweet stuff rots the enamel after a while.'

'I know that,' Draco said, shifting up onto his elbow from where he'd been lying on the floor, painting, and trying to keep a hold on his sanity. 'I wasn't talking about that, as you very well know.'

'Well, care to inform me what it is you _are_ talking about, Mr Liar Man?' Hermione said, with an uncharacteristic curl of her lip.

'Watch who you're calling a liar here,' he said hotly.

'I am - it's you,' she said, waving her scissors at him. 'And you're very good at it. I bet you're utterly delighted that you had me completely fooled, you bastard. Congratulations - I really thought you liked me.' She set her face in a glower to hide her trembling mouth.

'Aren't you the brilliant little actress,' he snorted. 'You had me convinced of the very same thing.'

'That wasn't an act!' she hissed, her eyes blazing.

The abrasive sincerity of her voice gave him pause, and to cover his discomfiture he said, in a throw-away tone, 'Well, we'd have made an awful couple - the Oxford student and her dupe.'

Hermione stared at him, her face working, and finally said, 'I didn't get in.'

'What?'

'They didn't offer me a place, all right? Gloat if you want!'

The pain of a wound she'd thought long-since healed welled up once more. Draco stared at her in horrified amazement. At that moment, Pansy's shrill voice rent the air.

'Black? I need your help!'

They both looked over at her at the same instant; she was grappling with the machine, but her position didn't prevent her from shooting Black a lascivious wink, and a deliberate view of her jacked-up cleavage. Hermione turned away in disgust, but was almost grateful to Pansy for distracting her from her impending emotional breakdown.

As Draco got to his feet and made his way over to Pansy, her fragile gratitude vanished like mist in the sun.

She was gripping a scissors in a meaningful way, wearing a twisted expression of scorn, when Binns finally returned with a dustpan and broom. He proceeded to sweep up the scattered stars, humming 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' tunelessly.

'Where'd Draco get off to?' he asked, when he'd finished.

'Over there, with his _girlfriend_ ,' she replied, jerking her head in Pansy's direction and vengefully ripping off a piece of Sellotape.

Binns followed her gaze, which had become stuck like a jarring record needle on the two half-intertwined figures. Draco was submitting to Pansy's fondlings with a preoccupied expression.

'Oh, they got back together, did they?' Binns inquired, his tone, for the first time in Hermione's recall, showing a tiny inflection of surprise. Gosh, even teachers thought they'd broken up. Draco should be due his Bafta any day now.

'They never broke up,' she explained, not sure why she was telling him this - except, perhaps, that he _would_ call Black 'Draco'.

Binns raised his eyebrows at her. 'That's not the impression I got. From him, his father or his mother. I was quite sure he'd broken things off with her.'

'You know them?' Hermione asked, flabbergasted.

'Quite intimately,' Binns replied, with a small, secret smile - another first.

Hermione glanced back at the couple in question. It was quite evident that Pansy had her hand up under Draco's t-shirt.

'Well, he probably wanted more easy sex,' she said bitterly, forgetting to whom she was addressing the words until it was too late.

Binns was very nearly grinning now. 'More? Miss Granger, he never had any to begin with.'

'How do you know?' Hermione asked, torn between horror and voyeuristic curiosity.

Binns' lips twitched. 'I was as good as told. If you want concrete proof you'll have to look outside of me. Oh, and Miss Granger?'

She looked up at him, her brain thrumming like an abused violin.

'Like I said, I know Mr Black and his family quite well. I told _you_ this for a reason. I hope you understand why. Now, I must put these away...'

He wandered off, still whistling. Hermione stared after him in a daze, and didn't notice Pansy's approach.

Pansy pushed past her, making her way to the door. 'Bye, Black darling!' she simpered over her shoulder. 'Oh, Mr Lupin, I have to go home now...'

Hermione stood, staring at the floor, until Draco, sounding quite piqued, asked her if she was planning to help him suspend the mobiles at any point in the near future?

~

Blaise and Harry stood back to admire their handiwork. Rows of twinkling lights looped around the basketball back-boards, across the walls and among the slowly revolving mobiles. Lupin had switched on the light machine, which threw eerie, slowly-rotating luminous shapes around the white walls, lending them an almost supernatural glow. The flame machine stood by the door, puffing gently and drawing the eye to admire it. It wasn't Blenheim Palace, but it _was_ kitsch enough to be cool.

Along with his coat, Harry had brought two sports bags with him, for tonight was the night; he was finally going to take up an extended residence as a free lodger _chez_ Zabini. It was not without disapprobation that he had finally caved; but now, as they stood with their arms around each other's waists, for all the world like something out of a dinky seaside postcard, all doubts seemed miraculously far-fetched.

Seeing as half the party was already in situ at Blaise's house, Hermione and Ron had agreed to meet there before heading to the dance the following night. Hermione was, in fact, getting ready there, much like she had the night Blaise had coerced her into going to the pub. It seemed a long time ago, and Blaise marvelled at how much things had changed.

As she heard Hermione and Black vociferously bickering over the placing of one of the mobiles, her face dropped a little. Not everything had changed for the better. Her eyes narrowed in frustration. She had been so _sure_ about Black...

'What's wrong? You look like you swallowed a hairball,' Harry said, reaching up to smooth her brow with the pad of his thumb.

'Your honesty is so refreshing,' she said, and shivered a little at his touch. They still hadn't had much of a chance to be alone. Up until now, Harry had had to leave school early every day, or suffer his uncle's wrath for his tardiness; and the school corridors were always so annoyingly crowded at break times.

Well, at least one of those problems was on its way to resolution...

Harry shifted so that they were facing each other rather than side by side, and leaned in to kiss her gently on the lips. Blaise squirmed pleasurably in his arms and kissed him back with more force. He broke off for a moment, startled, then smiled and kissed her again, parting her lips with his own. Blaise abandoned herself to the delectation of the moment. She couldn't wait until she got him on his own long enough to see how much more passionate his delicate, questing kisses could become...

~

Over at the other side of the hall, Hermione teetered at the top of the stepladder, affixing, with considerable difficulty, the hooked part of one of Black's red and gold mobiles to the thick string that crossed the hall.

'Is this right or what?' she hollered, reminding herself not to grab onto the string for support as it swung temptingly into reach, and finally twisting the wire around it.

'That's disgusting,' he said, in tones of deepest revulsion.

'What!' she screeched. 'After all that effort, I'll flaming garrotte you, you little -'

'Not the mobile, that's fine,' he snapped, and she stomped down the steps of the ladder, brushing off her trousers.

'What are you blathering on about?'

'That,' he said, pointing at Blaise and Harry. Hermione looked too, and smiled a little at the heart-warming picture they made. She assumed an aggressive stance as she turned to back to Draco.

'Well? No worse than you were doing with that Pansy creature,' she accused. He merely scowled at her.

'Are you finished, Hermione?' Blaise called over.

'No,' Hermione called back ruefully. 'Still got two more to do - although we _would_ be done if _someone_ hadn't had to change every single one I hung.' She treated Black to a fierce glare.

'It's not my fault you have no sense of balance,' he sniffed.

'Which explains why I'm the one up the ladder,' she said, stuffing down the urge to strangle him with one of his godforsaken mobiles. They glowered at each other until Blaise, who had approached without either of them noticing, interrupted.

'Well, me and Harry are...we were going to go home. Will you be long? We'll wait.'

'Oh no, don't bother,' Hermione said, not in the least wanting the guilt for having derailed the train that was bearing Harry and Blaise to an unspecified, but unequivocally interesting, destination.

'Well, if you're sure...' Blaise trailed off, not sounding like she was.

'Oh, I am. This tool will keep us here all night, no doubt.' Hermione quirked her thumb in Draco's direction. He was hovering in the background, his arms crossed defensively and one foot tapping the floor in impatience.

Blaise opened her eyes wide in sympathy. She leaned in closer to Hermione and whispered, 'Hermione...you do realise that you're wearing a black bra?'

Hermione hadn't, and she blushed. She whipped her head around, but Draco was squinting critically at the mobile she had just hung.

Once Blaise and Harry had departed, holding hands, Hermione turned around and realised that she and Draco were the only two of the squad left in the hall. She heaved a great sigh, and let herself be abysmally jealous of her friend.

'Let's get this over with, Black,' she said, feeling tired. To her great surprise, he made no snarky rejoinder. They finished their task in record time and, more remarkably, in complete silence.

Hermione went to fetch her jacket, and tossed Draco's to him. He caught it in surprise.

'Thanks,' he said. Hermione made no indication that she'd heard, instead heading for the door.

'Hermione.'

It was the first time he'd said her name in a long while; the word was enough to stop her dead in her tracks, and reluctantly wheel around to face him.

'What?'

'Come here and I'll get the stupid stars out of your hair,' he sighed. 'I shouldn't have tipped them on you in the first place.'

'If you think I want you touching my head, then you are quite seriously mistaken,' she said coldly.

'Really?' he returned with equal glaciosity. 'Well, if you thought I had some romantic intent in offering to make up for my fit of - of spite, then _you_ need your head examined. And de-starred.'

Hermione stared at him for a few moments. He looked back with unshakeable poise, his eyes shining like molten mercury under the plethora of whirring lights.

'Fine,' she agreed at last. 'Only because I don't relish the thought of walking down the street like this.'

'I would have thought you even more unhinged than I already do, if you had,' he informed her. She bared her teeth. 'Oh, sit down.'

With bad grace, Hermione plonked herself back on the floor, feeling her muscles protesting at their forcible return to the position they'd held, immobile, for hours already. Draco knelt behind her; his knees brushed her back. Immediately she stiffened, so that they wouldn't come into contact again.

His fingers dipped into her hair, and began tugging mercilessly.

'Ow,' she complained.

'The little blighters don't - want - to come out,' Draco said, through teeth gritted with effort, accompanying each word with a sharp tug. 'The fact that you clearly haven't brushed your hair in a good while isn't helping matters, either.'

'Bugger off, Black,' she snapped. 'Just because I don't carry a comb in my pocket, like you do -'

Hermione felt an almighty weight on the side of her head as Black used a fistful of her hair as a pivot to swing his face around in front of hers. She started, but the expression on his pale, pointed face was relatively benign.

'Do you not think, _Granger_ ,' he said pointedly, 'that if I had a comb I would use it to remove these _goddammned stars_?'

Hermione scowled at him, but as his face was so close to hers it merely seemed like she was angling to kiss him, and she desisted with undue speed. In a moment, Draco was behind her again - disconcerting thought though that was - and was once more jerking her head painfully as he yanked out a growing number of metallic stars.

After a time, the motion of his hands became almost soothing, and Hermione's head drooped forwards to her knees. She could almost imagine his hands were raking through her hair, not gently, but not with the intention of causing undue pain...on the contrary, with the aim of creating pleasurable, soothing shivers that even now were trickling down her spine...

'Last one.'

Hermione jerked awake. His fingers were no longer tangled in her hair, but hanging clenched by his sides as he stood before her.

'Thanks,' she said, her voice quiet from weariness. She stumbled to her feet; Binns and Lupin had emerged from who knew where, the back rooms perhaps, and were approaching them.

'C'mon Draco, Hermione, I'll give you a lift,' Binns said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. Hermione opened her mouth to say that she could walk home, but a huge yawn swamped her words.

Lupin was saying something about closing up.

She was walking through a door.

Someone's hand was on her back, guiding her as Binns walked ahead, jingling his keys.

The feel of cool seat-cover leather on her cheek.

The touch of cool night air.

And, finally, the warmth of her pillow.

Hermione slept.

~

Sev found that Remus' threat to place him on beverage patrol had not, alas, been an empty one. He was expected to turn up at about six to help set up, and turf out anyone looking for trouble - the dance was due to start at seven-thirty. He refused point-blank to wear any sort of silly costume, however. He donned his trusty leather trousers and a white shirt - respectable, but hardly 'dressed up'.

He arrived to find Binns walking around looking smug (or it could just have been his usual unreadable expression), Remus dancing around looking harried, Dumbledore stumping around looking approving, and Marie pacing around looking thoroughly pissed off.

'There you are!' she cried on spotting Sev, who blinked and wondered what he'd done.

'Remus was threatening to put me watching the drink table if you didn't arrive,' she said in an undertone when she got nearer. 'Good thing you did arrive, sonny, or the police'd have a job of finding your body.'

'Not so feverishly keen to help now, are we?' Sev said, feeling somewhat vindicated.

Marie blinked owlishly.

'What? No, I wanted to be the DJ's assistant!' She waved up at the dark-haired man with a handlebar moustache, who was standing on the DJ platform. He looked more like a bank manager than a DJ, in Sev's opinion, and more like a dead ringer for Hitler than either of these.

'Who is he?' Sev wanted to know.

'Bart Crouch is his name, but he calls himself Dark Catcher.' She rolled her eyes and giggled throatily. 'Don't ask why. I just want a go at spinning disks!'

Dumbledore was dressed as a magician, in long moon-spangled robes, a purple cloak, buckled boots and a pointy silver hat. Binns looked oddly at home in a traditional Amish outfit. Sev took stock - surely none of the students would look this silly? And if Remus had so many volunteers, why did _he_ need to be here?

Then his gaze fell on Remus, caught for a second under a strobe light, bathed in white like a Greek-replica statue. He was dressed in a costume that could have come out of Mr Darcy's wardrobe; a ruffled white shirt, open at the neck to reveal an inch or two of smooth skin, long leather boots and - Sev gulped - _extremely_ tight breeches. They were hardly decent.

Sev grinned. Things were looking up.

And when Remus spotted him, smiled, and started in his direction, Sev's eyes, fixed on his breeches, told his mind that Remus agreed with his assessment wholeheartedly.

'Good, Sev, you're here. You can help me take out the bottles.'

As Sev trotted obediently after him, Remus added, over his shoulder, 'So who are you dressed as, Sev? - oh, Michael Jackson, is it?'

~

Unlike Blaise, Hermione had not put much thought into her costume until it was almost too late.

Blaise and Harry, going the whole hog, had decided on matching outfits - Frankenstein and Bride of. Harry still looked very fetching with a green face, his scar gone over in black eyeliner and several more added to his face and neck. His hands had been dyed too, but he refused point-blank to wear the nuts-and-bolts headband, claiming it kept getting tangled in the earpieces of his glasses. Black jeans and a tunic cut from sacking completed the ensemble.

Blaise had piled on her favourite white pan stick with liberal dollops of black eye shadow and lipstick. The overall affect was one of two squashed flies in a bowl of flour. It wasn't much different from how she usually looked, except for the dress. Apart from a few atmospheric rips, it was a glorious confection of yellowed taffeta and ragged lace, fitted tightly around the bodice and swirling to the floor, with long, dagged sleeves.

Hermione had called Blaise early Saturday morning, having come to the shocking realisation, over her notes on covalent bonding, that she had nothing to wear.

'Short of putting on one of my dad's shirts and going as a scarecrow!' she'd wailed. Blaise, the original Fix-It woman, had had a brainwave in the shape of her mother.

'Just come round the time you were planning to,' she'd decided, 'and you'll be sorted.'

So at half-past four Hermione shut her books, picked up her overnight bag, bid her parents farewell and set off for Blaise's house, half-fearful of what exactly Blaise would force her to wear.

She felt guilty for her doubts when she laid eyes on the garb Mrs Zabini had dredged up from the attics of the house that had been in her husband's family for generations.

'This is incredible!' she gasped.

'And genuine, too,' Mrs Zabini said, pleased. 'This house was built in about 1879, and no one's bothered to clear out the attics since. Blaise's had the run of them, played in most of those old dresses - she's using a wedding dress for her costume. I think we even have corsets and shoes - I'll send her up to check.'

Hermione fingered the authentic twenties evening gown with awe. She held it up to herself in the mirror. The soft, smoky grey silk accentuated her hazel colouring; the hand-embroidered jet beads spun and clicked as she moved. It fell to just above her knees, with a handkerchief hemline. The bodice dipped to a daringly deep V in both front and back.

Blaise entered the room with difficulty, holding her skirt bunched in one hand, her other arm curved around a wicked-looking corset and high-heeled, toeless sandals in silver leather.

'I can't wear this, Blaise!' Hermione exclaimed. 'It must be priceless!'

Blaise dropped her load on the bed with an 'Oomph!' and rolled her eyes.

'So I trust you not to spill Fanta on it,' she said. 'Go on - it'll never be worn again otherwise. A dress like that is made to be worn. What size shoe do you take?'

'Six.'

'Don't know why I asked that, they probably had their shoes hand-made back then,' Blaise giggled, tossing Hermione a shoe. 'Here, try that on.'

Hermione stuck her foot inside the wiggly straps, and her toes emerged out the other end. 'They're a bit big.'

'That's all right - at least they're not too small. Get undressed, and I'll send Mum in to help you with the corset.'

Being dressed by Mrs Zabini was only as embarrassing as being trussed up by her mother, and her nimble fingers had fastened all the fiddly ties in no time. Hermione was doing up her shoes when Blaise returned.

'You do realise that I'm going to be taller than most of the boys there, now,' she pointed out. 'But, do you know, I don't care! This dress is amazing!' She gave a twirl for effect, and nearly fell off her heels. Blaise split a seam in her dress laughing, then had to rip it further so it looked deliberate.

'I came in to give you this,' she said at last. 'I found it in the chest with the dress.'

'This' turned out to be a silk hair ornament.

'It'd probably go better with short hair, though. So, can I cut yours?'

'No!' Hermione was fairly sure that Blaise was joking, but there was a disturbing gleam of eagerness in her eyes. Instead, Blaise brushed up one side of her freshly washed-and-straightened hair, and twirled it haphazardly before sticking the pin of the silk flower into it. Bits of hair fountained out in all directions, like a baby mohawk. They regarded it in the dressing-table mirror.

'Well, leave it out or not?' Blaise asked. 'We've got to go soon.'

'Leave it there,' Hermione decided. 'I like it.'

Blaise shrugged. 'So...ready to go to the ball?'

'Sure thing,' Hermione grinned, linking Blaise's arm. They made it to the stairwell without major incident, although Hermione wobbled dangerously in her heels and the fact that they both had their noses stuck in the air would not appear to have helped matters any.

Harry and Ron were waiting at the foot of the stairs. Harry had eyes only for Blaise, and he was grinning stupidly - a look that suited his costume down to the ground. Ron was standing beside him. He was dressed as a farmer, in gumboots, tatty jeans, a red plaid shirt and a fraying straw hat.

'Maybe I should have gone with the scarecrow idea, after all,' Hermione muttered. 'Then we'd have matched.'

Gripping the banister, she made it down the stairs behind Blaise, and with an inaudible sigh, took her place beside Ron. She wondered what Black was wearing. For some reason, she was pretty sure it wasn't something that could have done as well for mucking out a pigsty.

~

There was a considerable queue outside the PE hall when Hermione and Ron arrived, trailed by Blaise and Harry, who'd stopped every five minutes to kiss. Hermione reflected that it was like taking an incontinent dog out for a walk. She shoved a fiver into Dumbledore's hand, and in return had a gaudy halogen pink band snapped around her wrist by Lupin.

She paused, staring around in satisfaction at her handiwork and at that of everyone else. Within moments, she was joined by the others.

'This looks amazing!' Ron yelled over the blaring music. 'Did you lot do all this?'

'Yep!' Hermione said, pleased by his approbation.

'Let's dance!' Blaise screamed, grabbing Hermione with one hand and holding tightly to Harry's with the other. Hermione laughed, and snatched Ron's hand before she was whirled away. They were sucked into the pulsating organism that was the wildly dancing crowd.

Friends joined their group, and drifted away again, like plankton. She saw Lavender shimmying with Seamus; she was decked out in a princess ball gown, deep crimson with filigree embroidery, and a tiny jewelled crown. Seamus seemed to be dressed as Aragorn; his clothes were nondescript, but a huge long sword with a gaudy gilt handle clanked by his side and hit people in the knees as he danced.

Dean and Ginny whirled by, locked in an embrace; a West Ham footballer, complete with shorts, jersey, knobbly socks and football boots, with his arms twined around an angel in a tinsel halo and a dress that was altogether too tight for an avatar. Pam, in a Fifties flared skirt and a cardigan, was looking glum next to a shaking Neville in a frog costume. A butterfly-Parvati was dancing with Terry with such exuberance and abandon that a space had cleared around their flailing limbs.

Hermione even spotted, for a second, Pansy, bursting out of a tight nylon cat suit, and adjusting her furry pink ears. No Draco.

She laughed herself hoarse, calling remarks to Blaise and everyone else; the colours started blending in front of her eyes, and at last she called time out.

'Need air!' she mouthed to Blaise, who nodded in reply. Using her elbows as leverage, Hermione fought her way through the packed crowd to the relative peace of the backrooms.

Here it was quieter, and cooler. The walls were lined with kissing couples; Hermione stepped carefully around a particularly enthusiastic pair, who had slid to the floor in their ecstasy.

Snape was standing behind a trestle table lined with mineral cans and deep bowls filled with dusky pink liquid, doling them out with a morose expression. Binns was marching up and down before it, daring anyone to test the slamming power of his stiff, inordinately wide-brimmed hat. Hermione smiled at him, and made her way past them to the back door, which was significantly less crowded.

She stepped outside and the coolness of the night enveloped her like a silk cloak, whispering under the hem of her dress and trailing icy fingertips up her arms, leaving a pebbled path of goose bumps in their wake. She made her way, wobbling, to a low wall the overlooked the slight knoll leading down the PE grounds and, eventually, to the housing estate beyond. From her elevated position she gazed down and across at the expanse of twinkling lights, imagining she could see the movement of people in their kitchens and living rooms, just behind the pulled blinds, over the yellow squares of electric light.

The snap of a ring-pull being peeled back alerted her to the fact that she was no longer alone. She whirled, but her shoes didn't quite follow her, forcing her to perform an awkward two-step shuffle to retain her balance - precarious at the best of times. Her fountain of hair bobbed in sympathy, waving like feathers in a fan.

Black was standing silhouetted against the spill of brightness from the door behind him. Not sure if he had noticed her or not, Hermione stood absolutely still, and observed him.

His head was tilted back to swig his drink, and his Adam's apple bobbed against the lambent skin of his throat as he swallowed. He was dressed as a cowboy, in fringed leather chaps, pointy boots with gleaming spurs and a sombrero hat perched on his pale gold head. A black shirt with silver stitching clung to his spare frame, untucked at one side and revealing an expanse of pale flesh. Embarrassed to be caught looking, but unable to tear her gaze away, Hermione almost jumped in shock when his hat fell off and rolled in the breeze, coming to rest at her feet.

It was like a sign. She stared down at it. It was black - to match the shirt, she presumed - with a thin silver band around the rim. She looked back at him, and their eyes locked; fearful brown merged with diamond-bright grey as the air between them sang and shivered.

Slowly, Hermione bent her knees and grasped the hat by the crown. Her skirt whispered against her skin as the material slithered down, revealing bony knees and the tops of her thighs. Her eyes on his face, she saw him follow the movement of the silk, blinking rapidly with eyelashes dancing like spider's legs.

She stood; the dress fluttered down again, trembling in the wind, as if she was still twirling madly, inside on the dance floor. She watch him watch her as she had watched him, moments before, and held out his hat, feeling stupid and sad and angry. Angry that whatever powers were there, up there, down there, could be so disorganised as to make her fall in love with someone and not know it until she picked up his hat.

Draco took it but did not put it on; it dangled loosely from his fingertips. Neither of them spoke. The thumping music seemed stilled, the loud chatter dimmed to the faintest susurration. The wind picked up in intensity, making a faint howling noise as it battered against the sides of the building.

Hermione was cold, but she didn't move, not even to clench her hands together for warmth. Draco looked faintly ridiculous, standing there in his Wild West outfit, one hand gripping his Coke can, ready to spray brown foam at his opponent in place of bullets. The wind's playful fingers ruffled his hair, as if the fine strands were waves on a pale gold sea. His face was faintly puzzled. She fancied him so much she could hardly breathe.

Her feet sliding around in her over-large shoes, she walked past him, back into the warmth and the light and the buzz of sound, leaving her heart behind, in his hat where he'd caught it.

~

Pam stood against the cool of the wall, staring at her fingernails. They were a pale, seashell pink. They matched the colour of her sweater perfectly. And the colour of her socks. And her hair ribbon. Everything should be right with the world.

It wasn't, though.

She glanced over the dance floor, wondering where Neville had got off to. He had mumbled something about fetching drinks. She had a funny feeling that she terrified him.

Lavender was waltzing with Seamus, wincing every so often as his sword whacked against her legs. Her blonde-streaked brown hair was piled on top of her head in fussy ringlets and finished off with the ridiculous tiara. She had always wanted to wear a tiara. She'd told Pam so. When she got married, she was going to have a huge diamond one. No one could say anything about it, not on her wedding day.

The song ended, and Lavender glided over, her hands lifting her skirts. She should have lived in the time the dress recalled. Lavender was made for sweeping trains, dashing partners and being treated as a fainting, delicate female. Jeans and feminism always sat rather incongruously on her.

'Seen Black anywhere?' she said in Pam's ear, more to prevent eavesdropping than a need to be heard - the song playing was a soft ballad.

'Yeah, he came in with Pansy,' Pam replied, making a face, and ignoring the proximity of Lavender's body to her own.

'Great.' Lavender's tone conveyed the exact opposite meaning to her words. 'I suppose there's no way we can fix this, is there?'

'I think we have to let them figure it out on their own,' Pam mumbled. 'There's no way we could tell them the truth, unless we want Pansy to...'

Her voice trailed off, a sudden image jumping to the forefront of her brain. Holding her hand out to Lavender, asking her to dance. Kissing her on the lips, just once, in front of all these people. Nothing terrible, nothing awful, no thunderclap or showers of cherubs and hearts. No American ending. It was the twenty-first century. People would stare for a moment, and then move on with their lives.

Lavender was shaking her head vehemently, a look of abject horror on her face.

'God, anything but that...if that got out...'

She didn't elaborate, but clearly she felt the consequences would be dire. Pam looked out over her head, bright visions fading into a dull reality of writhing, heterosexual bodies on a sweaty dance floor.

~

The last song was played at 2:15 am. People were reluctant to leave, but many were also having difficulty in staying vertical. Only one fight had broken out, and had been easily quelled by Binns. He'd forced his way onto the dance floor and head-butted the premier assailant with his hat, knocking him out cold for three hours. Whether out of a genuine desire to avoid trouble or a more specific fear of Binns' hat, the end result was that peace had prevailed for the remainder of the night.

'If you can call watching hundreds of horny teenagers get off right in front of you 'peaceful',' Sev grumbled, rinsing out punch bowls with bad grace at three am. 'Which I don't. Honestly, they have no shame.'

'Perhaps they believe in making love, not war,' Remus suggested, with the merest hint of a grin, flicking a tea-towel lethargically over Marie's vine-printed basin.

'Hey, dry that properly!' Sev objected, frowning at him.

'I'm too tired,' Remus sighed, slumping against the counter and letting his eyes droop closed. He started when a warm weight pressed against his stomach. A second later, the teat towel was whipped from his hands.

'I'll do it then,' Sev said sourly. 'You owe me one.'

'Then you can take my pound of flesh,' Remus yawned, sliding to the floor and ignoring the cold cupboard handle poking into his back. He dozed off as Sev finished drying the bowls and ran a cloth over the counters. Only moments later, or so it seemed to him, Sev's warm hands were under his arms, hoisting him upright.

'Time to g-g-go?' he asked, through a huge yawn.

'Yep,' Sev said. His hands were resting on Remus' hips now. He sounded as awake - if still as sullen - as he had nine hours before. 'I'll be wanting that pound of flesh, then.'

Remus' eyes snapped open as Sev tilted his head and pressed his lips to the side of Remus' neck. Remus swallowed, not feeling in the least tired any more. Before Sev could disappear again, he slid his arms around Sev's waist and pressed him close against his own body. Sev sighed against his neck, blowing cool air onto the damp patch he'd left. One hand fumbled at Remus' waist, tugging his shirt out from his breeches and coming to rest, a hot hand-shaped hole in the universe, on Remus' hard stomach.

His face twisted into a smile as Sev raised his eyebrows and breathed, his hand sliding upwards, 'Your place or mine?'

~

It was difficult to walk when a human leech was swinging off you, lips attached like suckers to your neck or face and hands clamped firmly on your belt buckle, but Draco managed it somehow. He kept up an impassive expression on his face, even when Pansy pushed him up against a convenient wall and slid her thigh between his legs.

As she filled his mouth with her tongue, he closed his eyes and saw the image of Hermione, crouched on the ground like a startled gazelle. It was burned into the back of his eyelids. Even though Pansy's technique - a lot of shoving was involved - was hardly on a par with Hermione's (but how could he judge? He'd never got the time), it was easy to pretend it was her kissing him, not Pansy. Hermione's hands slithering across his chest and pushing at his groin. Unfastening his belt buckle, pulling down his zipper. Her mouth -

'No!' Draco yelled, jolting her away from him with both hands and fumbling at his trousers.

'What's wrong, Black?' Her voice was uncertain and, at the base, derisory. 'Don't you want this?'

Draco closed his eyes. Of course he wanted it. He'd be a worse than a fool if he didn't; he'd be a monk, for crying out loud. It was just - it was just. Not from _her_. Duckface. Not from someone who didn't even know his name. Not for his first time, or for any time. Abjectly foolish he knew it to be, but if it wasn't going to Hermione, it wasn't going to be anyone. He could taste Pansy in his mouth, and abruptly wished he could spit. That would be rude.

'Does this have anything to do with that Granger bitch?' Pansy demanded. 'What's she been saying to you?'

'Absolutely nothing,' Draco said, with perfect truth.

'Then what is it? Why are you getting all pissy, just because she was dared -'

'What do you know about that?'

'What?' Pansy looked distinctly wrong-footed.

'It was Lavender and Padma who dared her, it was nothing to do with you,' Draco said, with a faint, but growing, realisation.

'So they told me. Big deal.' Pansy wiped her hands against her nylon sides.

But Draco was looking closely at her face, at the way her heavily kohled eyes avoided his own searching ones and how the side of her lip was being chewed into blubbery folds. He remembered the shattered look on Hermione's face and how much he'd wanted to believe her. Hermione's words resonated in his mind. _I_ never lie. I _never_ lie.

'I don't think so, Pansy.'

He wasn't just refuting her claim of innocence, but the offer of carnal knowledge of her, presented to him with as little finesse as an undressed carcass. Pansy, dim as she was, could read on his face what he didn't say with his mouth. She, too, was recalling words spoken in anger.

He'll never look at you the way he looks at her.

Stupid bitch.

'Fuck you!' Pansy cried, both to Black and those pompous, self-congratulatory voices in her head. And punched him in the face.

Draco sank to his knees as Pansy stormed off, creaking in her slowly-stiffening cat suit like a ship's timbers. Blood poured from his nose. He tasted it metallic on his tongue, and gratefully licked it from his lips as its tang eradicated Pansy from his mouth forever. His nose felt tender, and oddly distended. He didn't think it was broken, though; he sincerely hoped it wasn't.

Tired suddenly, he rested his head against the concrete and closed his eyes.

~

Seamus had planned to spend Sunday in bed, recuperating. His strategy was truncated by the arrival of Dean on his doorstep, swaying and with hugely dilated pupils.

Seamus hadn't drunk a great deal of spiked punch the night before, but it was enough to make his eyes prickle as though microscopic hedgehogs were squatting on his corneas. He was not disposed to entertain Dean dressed only in jockey shorts and a U2 t-shirt, no matter how cool Seamus thought Bono was.

But Dean was clearly snookered and, from the looks of it, stoned to boot. Peering closer, Seamus could see a bottle or Brian Boru, along with several badly rolled joints, dangling from Dean's limp fingers. He couldn't leave him wandering the streets in this state. He was likely to trip over the first crack in the pavement, and lie there, a danger to himself and all passing pedestrians.

Dean started singing Queen as Seamus ushered him up the stairs. At the top of his lungs, in a very clear and pure, but utterly unmusical, voice. When they reached his room, Seamus shoved him down onto his rumpled bed and rubbed his hedgehog eyes in irritation.

Dean had started swigging out of the vodka bottle and Seamus rushed forward to prise it out of his fingers. Dean pouted like a small child. Seamus rolled his eyes and took a slug of his own, to fortify himself, before resolutely tucking it away behind his bedside locker.

'What's wrong with you, Dean?' he asked. A reasonable question, to his own mind, but Dean seemed to find it irresistibly funny. He started laughing in great, gasping guffaws, holding his stomach and flopping backwards against the bed. He didn't even seem to notice that he'd slammed his head off the headboard with a dull crack. Seamus winced in sympathy, as Dean seemed unwilling to do it for himself. He crawled onto the counterpane and stretched himself lengthways next to Dean.

Dean shuffled himself around so that he was facing Seamus, looking into his face with huge, lost-puppy eyes. Seamus was startled to see that he was crying. Assuming it was down to the pain of almost fracturing his skull, he clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Hey, it'll be fine.'

'How will it?' Dean sniffled.

'The pain will go away in a bit.' Dean looked at him in drunken bafflement, as Seamus cast about for something to distract Dean from his aching head. His gaze lit on the joints, still clutched in Dean's hand.

Seamus had never smoked hash before. He'd never kissed a boy, either. For some inexplicable reason, the two things were suddenly closely linked - if he didn't do one now, the other would never happen.

'Have you got a lighter, Dean?'

'In me pocket,' Dean said, scrubbing his face with one hand and appearing mildly astonished when it came away damp.

Half an hour later they were both rolling around on Seamus' rapidly-becoming-tossed bed, laughing hysterically at nothing at all. Dean pointed at Seamus' mouth and dissolved into silent giggles. Annoyed, Seamus pretended to bite off Dean's outstretched finger, but ended up licking it instead.

Dean looked at his wet finger, and settled for the tried and trusted response of snorting with laughter. After a second, Seamus joined in, rolling onto his back and covering his face as he convulsed in a fit of chuckling. The movement of his chest, the muscles of which were pulled taut by his reclining position, fascinated him, and for a while he didn't even realise that Dean had stopped laughing. Or that his body was pressed up alongside Seamus', and that his hands were stroking that very same chest that had been the subject of such absorption on Seamus' part a moment before. First Dean's hand, and the his head, slid down Seamus' side, coming to rest at the top of his legs.

For a while, Seamus forgot to breathe.

~

Sev couldn't remember having held a sleeping Marv in his arms. Sev had always fallen asleep first, and woken last. It seemed a terrible waste, as he lay now in Remus' neat, two-toned bedroom, full of furniture and their twisted, dropped-there clothes. The sleeve of his shirt lay cast across Remus' wrinkled breeches, so that a potential hand rested were certain of Remus' unruly anatomy would be. It was a prophecy; a warning; a destiny. And Sev had always hated fortune-telling, and didn't believe in fate.

He breathed in strands of Remus' short silky hair with each breath. Remus made quiet, snuffling sounds when he slept. His damp mouth was pressed against the dip of Sev's collarbone. Sev wondered if Marv's arm had ever gone dead with the weight of Sev's body against it, like his own was now. He'd fallen asleep so often with his nose full of Marv's scent. The last thing he saw was one of his tattoos, or the strangely vulnerable underside of his chin. Remus' eyebrow bar was scratching against his tender skin.

Sev wondered why Marv had never complained. Sev was finding it bloody annoying.

He contemplated shaking Remus awake. No doubt they could indulge in another bout of slow, contented love-making, as they had the first time. But Sev couldn't bring himself to. Remus would want to talk, after that. He was a word person, and Sev hadn't got much to say. Besides, he'd had a late night. Let him rest.

Remus shifted in his sleep, muttering something unintelligible. Even when slumbering, he didn't let up. Always talking. Never just feeling. No, it had to be analysed into its constituent parts. Its constituent _words_. If you didn't have the right words, then you couldn't possibly be feeling the right things.

But seduction should never have anything to do with words.

~

Seamus blinked. From the sudden change of the light patterns on his ceiling, he deduced that he'd fallen asleep. Sober and conscious now, he remembered the outline of Dean's visit. His stomach squirmed, half in guilty pleasure and half in fear. He wasn't entirely sure that it hadn't just been a dream, some semi-waking fantasy of the sort he indulged in with moderate frequency.

As a hunched figure resolved itself from the dusky shadows, seated on the edge of his bed, Seamus realised that he was naked, and that the room was very cold.

Dragging his sheet around him, he shuffled forward on his knees to where Dean was sitting, and touched a hand to his shoulder. Dean's abrupt flinch at the contact told Seamus all he needed to know.

'Dean,' he said, with a sinking heart, but his voice had no strength and the word came out as the barest of whispers.

Dean turned his face to Seamus, his face ravaged. Runnels had formed on his cheeks from a near-constant flow of tears. Some part of Seamus registered that he could not be responsible for this depth of agony; that something had happened to Dean that had cause him to come, drunken and singing, to his best friend's house in the first place. The mistake of sleeping with that same friend was an effect, not a cause.

This part forced him to ask, in a hollow voice, 'What is it?'

'Ginny.' The word was raw, knife-edged. Dean took a deep, shuddering breath. 'She - oh god. She's pregnant.'

At that word - even as Dean formed it - even as it fell, half-formed, from his lips, Seamus knew. His eyesight momentarily blackened as his head, reeling, tried to take in the enormity of what he'd just been told. Of the magnitude of the misdemeanour that was he and Dean together.

Through a red haze of suffering that could only be pale in comparison to that one that must be obscuring Dean's sight, he heard Dean mumble some class of farewell, shuffle from the room and close the door. Not loudly, or angrily, but half-heartedly. Letting the handle spring up of its own accord, not caring whether the lock was engaged or not.

The next few hours were empty to Seamus. He lay crouched in a foetal position, shivering as if from a raging fever. His hands felt clammy and cold, the guilt smeared on them.

Not entirely cognisant of his actions, Seamus (up there, in the corner of the ceiling, with cold clammy guilt-smeared hands) watched Seamus (down there, moving like a robot, all jerks and sudden stops) mechanically dress himself. Pull on shoes and walk down the stairs, out the door. Down the street, marching. A kamikaze pilot towards his plane. Left, right, cross the road, thundering lorry, squealing brakes, sorry mister, stupid fucking kid, continue down a leafy tree-lined avenue.

Seamus pressed the bell and leaned his head against the brick façade. The hedgehogs were having a race over his eyeballs, rolling on their spiny backs. Each quill jolted another tear out of the fleshy corner of his eyes.

Cedric opened the door, looking surprised and like he'd just come from tea. He was wearing socks and had ketchup on his chin. Seamus reached up and rubbed it off, tears dripping neatly into the hollow of his collarbone.

Seamus found his voice, as miles away the invisible cord of torment that linked him with Dean suddenly snapped and the thorns in his eyes flowed out with the rest of his tears. He shrugged one shoulder, and smiled. Cedric was looking at him as one would an escaped tiger - warily.

'Well,' said Seamus, 'I'm ready now.'


	11. You And Me Song

_And if the world were black and white entirely_

_And all the charts were plain_

_Instead of a mad weir of tigerish waters,_

_A prism of delight and pain,_

_We might be surer where we wished to go_

_Or again we might be merely_

_Bored but in brute reality there is no_

_Road that is right entirely._

(Louis MacNiece)

Hermione, in the heat of her anger and betrayal, had considered asking Binns to move her seat in History. However, days passed, and she still had not bestirred herself to do anything about it. Even in English, Blaise, with an apologetic smile, had taken up sitting next to Harry, leaving Hermione on her own once more. With a seat cold beside her, that Draco silently filled.

Hermione came to realise that she couldn't bear to lose this final contact with him, empty and desolate as it was. When she bent her head close to her books, she could catch a trace of his aftershave. Once, their feet had bumped. Hermione had snatched hers away, beet-red, muttering apologies.

So the remained, the two of them, silent and betrayed, locked in a cycle of their own making, never addressing a word to each other. Draco no longer copied Hermione's homework. Instead, he brought an A4 art pad to each class along with his dog-eared textbooks, and the sound of his fingernail flicking the tabletop was replaced with the slow, steady scratching of lead against paper.

Hermione never looked in his direction, never turned her head to speak to him. She had no excuse, no reason to glance over to see what he was drawing. She pretended she didn't care.

The Monday after the dance, he came in sporting a huge, swollen nose. It didn't take long or the rumour to reach Hermione's eager ears. Pansy had punched him, because he'd broken up with her. Again.

'Yes,' Blaise confirmed. 'Pansy was lying. They weren't going out while you two were - you know.' She'd had this from Pam who, in addition to feeling she no longer had anything to lose, perceived that since Pansy had gone and lost him a second time it wouldn't make a difference who knew the details of their first break-up.

It seemed doubtful in the extreme that Draco would take up with her again; Pansy herself declared that she wouldn't touch him now, not with a ten-foot bargepole with a welly on the end of it. She had omitted to add that she'd never touched him in the first place. If she couldn't have him, she was damn well going to make sure that the world thought she had.

'When he was lying to me,' Hermione finished for Blaise, scraping her hair back into a messy ponytail. 'I don't care what Pansy did or did not do. It's Black's part in this I was interested in, and he told me himself that Greg dared him. None of this makes the slightest bit of difference.'

Hermione never lied to other people, at least; only to herself.

She was discovering the abyss of shame that love was willing to throw her into. She knew that whatever he asked of her she could not refuse, whether or not he'd slept with Pansy. There was no depth to which she would not sink for him.

She took a detached satisfaction in seeing Blaise and Harry together - living proof that it sometimes worked, for some people. Provided, perhaps, that you didn't ask too much, wish too hard, love so fiercely. If you floated on the surface of life, you were never dragged under by the sharks.

~

Blaise waited patiently, every night for three weeks, for Harry to pay her a night-time visit. It never happened.

Every evening, after dinner, he would help her with the wash-up. They would study side-by-side in her father's book-lined study, engulfed in deep leather armchairs. Afterwards, they would watch TV together, curled up on the sofa. Harry's hand would creep across the back of the seat, settling onto her shoulders. She would turn to him and receive his kisses, open her mouth to his careful tongue, and wonder why he didn't realise that she was his for the taking. It almost seemed that he wanted to be reassured, every time, 'Yes, Harry, I do want to kiss you. I do still like you.'

Blaise decided that she would have to take matters into her own hands. The resolution left her feeling somewhat nervous - so much so that she kept putting it off, wondering if Harry would take the initiative. It didn't happen. Either Harry didn't want her - doubtful, in light of recent events, and not a supposition Blaise, being the sort of person she was, entertained for very long - or he was just shy. Or unsure. Or didn't want to push things too fast. Possibly all three of these things.

At about midnight one Saturday, Blaise took a deep breath and slipped out of bed. She made her way along the corridor, twisting the hem of her periwinkle silk pyjamas in her fingers. She hesitated outside Harry's door, then knocked softly. There was no reply from inside, so she tried the handle. It was unlocked. Encouraged, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Harry had tried to be tidy, in deference to the fact that he was a guest, but here and there his true, messy nature shone through. A pile of socks shared the bed with him, and the zipper of one of his bags spewed clothes and a tangled set of headphones. A t-shirt had been tossed over her brother's huge globe, so that the world - apart from Tasmania - appeared to have been engulfed in a wrinkled, red-cotton glacier.

Harry was asleep on his back, one arm flung over his mounded pillows. His unruly hair almost obscured his face, which in sleep was relaxed and slack-jawed, glowing in the patch of moonlight that highlighted his bed. The covers had been thrown back so that his entire, bare torso was uncovered. Blaise raised her eyebrows, shocked but appreciative. Did Harry sleep _au naturel_?

That he was asleep was certain. Blaise sighed, and decided that she wasn't cut out for this seductress role after all. Not in light blue pyjamas with dancing sheep on them, at least. All at once, she felt incredibly stupid. What would Harry think if he woke up and saw her standing there, like a lip-licking stalker? That she was a psycho with a one-track mind, probably. _Why_ couldn't he have acted like a typical male, and come to break her door down as soon as her mother had tactfully retired with a mug of cocoa and her _Hello!_ magazine?

Harry's eyes fluttered open, and Blaise froze, one hand on the door-handle. He blinked once or twice, then raised a hand to shove his tangled hair out of his eyelashes. He started at Blaise for a few seconds, and she at him. She could feel a hot flush of embarrassment rising up her neck, like a torrential tidal wave.

'Hello, Blaise,' he said, squinting at her.

'Hi,' she muttered, her throat constricted. He sat up a little, dragging the covers with him. Her curiosity overcoming her, she blurted, 'Are you wearing anything?'

Harry blinked at her again, and grinned. 'A hopeful expression?' he suggested.

All dams broke in Blaise's blush flood.

'Fact is, I left all my pjs at my uncle's place, so I just sleep in my, uh, boxers,' Harry was explaining. He looked at her curiously. 'Why are you here? Is something wrong?'

'I couldn't sleep.' Blaise looked out of the window, wondering why the streetlight suddenly held such interesting facets. Surely it hadn't had those all along, or people would do nothing but stare at them all night long.

Harry studied his bed sheets. 'When I can't sleep, I usually listen to music.' He hesitated. 'You want to - share headphones?'

'Okay,' Blaise grinned. She clambered under the covers, nudging her foot against his warm, bare calf. As Harry reached for his Discman, she snuggled against him.

If she had her way, they wouldn't be listening to music for very long.

~

Draco was watching his mother and Binns play chess. Or rather, watching Binns play and his mother lose miserably, for it was painfully obvious that she hadn't a clue what she was doing. He regarded them with the same vague, dreary amusement that imbued everything he was involved in lately.

'You can't move the knight like that,' Binns objected.

'I thought the horsey ones moved diagonally,' Narcissa said in confusion.

'No, that's the bishops.' Narcissa looked blank. 'The priesty ones?' Binns prompted.

Narcissa's expression cleared. 'Oh, yes. I'll move that one then.'

Binns sighed. 'You can't, Narcissa.'

'Why not? You said they move diagonally!'

'Yes, but it's my go.'

Draco rolled his eyes and sunk deeper into the silk-upholstered armchair he was ensconced in. The arms were worn from years of him leaning on them, hanging over them, drooling on them (by accident, usually, when he fell asleep watching TV). He supposed he could do some homework, but he'd long since got out of the habit. Not that this habit wasn't more of a copying genre. Either way, both the impetus and the source had dried up.

He slithered stomach-first over the side of the chair, where he'd squirreled away an old drawing pad and a chewed pencil. Narcissa was used to finding these stashes tucked away in odd places; Draco detested having to fetch drawing materials when the urge came upon him to scrawl something, and so kept a set in each room, like Liberace's pianos.

Within minutes he was absorbed in drawing a scene that had been foremost in his mind during the past few weeks; a couple, embracing, the girl wearing a rather familiar twenties-style dress and with knobbly knees. He didn't notice that Binns had claimed victory once again, leaving Narcissa to make coffee with ill-disguised relief.

When Binns came to stand beside him, peering at what he was drawing, he at last stirred himself to say, 'You're in my light.'

'Did you apply to art college, Draco?' Binns asked with interest.

' _Black_. No, I didn't apply to UCAS at all.'

'That's a pity. You have some talent.'

'Some is the right word for it. I can sketch a bit, that's all.'

'Ever tried oils, or watercolours?'

'Nope. Never could be bothered to buy any.'

'What are you going to do next year, if you're not going to university?'

'Travel,' Draco informed him. 'Now if there's something you want to say, do, otherwise go away.'

'Did you ever wonder why you're drawing Hermione Granger all the time?'

Draco glared up at him, surprised to find he looked a little disconcerted. 'I don't have to wonder. I know why. Is that all?'

'No.' Binns drifted out of the room towards the kitchen, leaving Draco scowling after him. In a fit of pique, he scored a heavy line through his drawing and crumpled it up. Tossing the art pad and the pencil to the floor, he slouched down in the seat in a sulky torpor, not moving until his mother called him for supper.

~

As the days accelerated and the span of time separating 'now' and the exams shrunk alarmingly, Hermione lost herself in a haze of constant revising and learning. At this stage, after two years of near-constant, steady work, she had little to worry about in terms of performance, but this didn't stop the niggling anxiety that burrowed away every time she took a break. Even thoughts of Draco took second place to it. It was easy to decide that, right now, Chemistry/History/English was her priority, and to shove Draco to the back of her brain, even though she had no idea what she wanted to do after her exams but was very sure that she wanted him.

Speak of the devil and he will appear; in her mind's eye, at least. The frantic energy which was giving vaulting ambition to even the laziest students didn't seem to have roused Draco in the slightest. These last days, teachers were only as interested in the students as the students were in them, so he was left to his own devices in class, and seemed to spend a lot of time staring out the window. In spite of herself, Hermione worried about him. She feared that he was wasting his potential, for one thing, and that he was going to fail his exams, for another. It wouldn't be half so tragic if she didn't know that he could outstrip even her if he put his mind to it. In truth, Hermione had little enough worry to spare for anyone but herself; but what amount she had left over was earmarked, in its totality, for Draco.

A lot of people were looking forward to the school trip, with that desperate longing that characterises people facing into a huge exam with - or so it seems - so little hope of emerging unscathed. Hermione knew the feeling well, from class tests that no one else had fretted about in the least. How attractive simple things could be, now you couldn't do them. Can't read a book, watch TV, go for a walk, go out - no, must study. The fact that it was 'only for a few weeks' made it worse, infusing the whole process with an urgency that could not be denied or put aside for later.

Hermione had her doubts about the trip. Blaise and Harry thought it was the knees of the bees and the pyjamas of the cat, but of course they would - two nights without parental supervision was a brilliant opportunity. (Though from what Blaise hinted, her mother's precense hadn't prevented quite extensive experimentation on their part.)

The fact that the trip was subsidised, and hence free, meant that just about the entire class had decided to go - a rare enough occurrence. Hermione was going too, even though she didn't think a castle-shaped outdoor events centre was really her thing. Nor were soppy last-time get-togethers, not with people she'd happily avoided her entire life, and would not be upset never to see again.

Of course, there were exceptions. Blaise, and through her, Harry.

Draco.

It would probably be for the best if she never saw Draco again, though. Considering the direction their lives were likely to take, it was shaping up to be an easy enough task.

~

Hermione was bouncing a basketball, looking around in vain for her teammates. The new atmosphere of vigour and jolly-hockey-sticks - courtesy of Lupin, damn the man - had urged even Hagrid on to greater heights. He had attempted to form 6A into two opposing basketball teams for an actual match, although with little tangible success.

Neither Seamus nor Dean were in school, decreasing the quotient of people genuinely interested in sport by ninety percent. In support of Hermione, Harry and Blaise were standing on the court, but couldn't help chatting, or 'marking' as they termed it. They also jumped in surprise whenever the ball came their way.

Hagrid was currently chasing Pam, Parvati and Lavender out from behind his shed, where they had taken refuge with Terry. Pansy was lurking around the other side, grinning evilly. Vinnie and Hermione were the only ones making a real effort to play, but as Vinnie was on the other team she could hardly throw to him. Her other teammate, Ron, was engaged in keeping Greg in a headlock - his contribution to 'defending'.

That left Draco.

Hermione really, really did not want to throw the ball to him. For one thing, he was evincing utter disinterest in the game - and life in general, if she was any judge - standing near the hoops wearing a disdainful expression and a Dublin jersey purloined from Seamus. But there was no one else.

'Oi! Black! Think quick!' she yelled, and thrust the ball at him. She was indifferent dribbler and an unqualified failure at shooting, but she had a strong throw. A second before the ball cannoned into his stomach his hands whipped out and caught it. Following through on the arc of the throw he raised his arms and, with one hand, tossed the ball at the net. It dropped through so neatly the netting barely moved. He didn't turn to watch it, but returned to standing on the sides of his trainers and staring at the sky.

Amazed, Hermione dashed to get the ball and passed it to Vinnie for the throw-in. She dared to go up to Draco and mutter, 'Good shot.'

'Thanks,' he replied, sounding authentically gratified.

'Are you going to play, then?' she challenged. He looked hesitant. 'Come on - our team needs you!'

'Fine,' he said at last.

'Cool,' Hermione said, guessing her elation had more to do with the fact that Draco had spoken civilly to her than her team's increased chances of success.

'Greg! Get up!' Vinnie called in irritation. Greg managed to shake off Ron's clutches and jogged to intercept the ball.

'Harry! Tackle him!' Hermione ordered. Harry, grinning, ran forward to fumble the ball out of Greg's surprised grasp. Within minutes, everyone on the court was involved, running, passing, attempting to score. Hermione, breathless, used her height to snatch the ball from the air and hurl it to a waiting Draco, who scored every time with deceptive ease.

What the other team lacked in skill they made up for in enthusiasm, making faces and attempting to perform the hakka in between grabbing at the ball. Hagrid left the skulking girls to their hidey-hole to watch in astonishment.

By the end of half-an-hour, Hermione's team led sixteen to three, as recounted by a stupefied Hagrid. When the bell rang, the teams abandoned their game. Ron, Greg and Vinnie trooped off, engaged in a serious conversation concerning the merits of virtual basketball over the real kind. (It later transpired that they had all applied to the same web-design course.) Harry slung an arm around Blaise's waist and kissed her in congratulation of her basket scoring; she kissed him back for the same reason, and they ambled towards the school together. Terry and the girls made a break for it, giggling madly.

Hermione picked up the basketball and handed it to Hagrid, and turned to find Draco still standing on the court, staring at her.

Self-consciously, she tucked her sweaty hair behind her ear and straightened her damp t-shirt where it had ridden up during the game. Clearing her throat nervously, she approached him, wondering if he would blow her off for daring to speak to him a second time.

'You're very good at basketball,' she offered, because he was, and because she was longing to tell him everything that he was wonderful at but couldn't.

'I shouldn't have said you were crap at sport,' he said, not looking at her.

'But I am,' she pointed out, tugging out her hair tie and ruffling her hair, hoping the breeze would dry the sweat on the back of her neck.

'Only in comparison to how good you are at everything else,' he said, turning to face her, his jaw held taut and his eyes narrowed, as if the sight of her hurt him.

'I'm not good at some things,' she muttered. 'Not the important things. If you ever need someone who can learn things off but is completely useless with people, just call me.'

'I don't have my phone on me now, or I would,' he said quietly, one eye squinting at the sudden burst of sunlight that illuminated Hermione's hair like a static, rumpled halo. 'I think I need someone like that.'

It wasn't what he meant to say; he wanted to say 'I need you', but he couldn't quite risk it. He'd have to hope she knew what he meant.

Hermione shrugged. She hated when people spoke in riddles; she had a feeling Draco was admitting something here, but she didn't have the self-assurance to think that it had anything to do with her. Even though he hadn't stop looking at her, and every line of his body screamed for her. A lifetime of reading books was not enough preparation to read people, even though Draco, at this moment, was the human equivalent of foot-high skywritten letters.

While he watched and she pretended that he wasn't, she dragged her fingers through her hair and fastened it back in a loose plait. Her fingers deftly twined the long strands into a semblance of neatness, while Draco took it all in from the corner of his eye. He remembered how soft and springy her hair had felt the one time he had held it back from her face, while she painted.

'We'd want to go in. School's over now,' Hermione said, knowing she could have stood with him all day, in silence. There was a pile of study waiting for her at home, a lifetime empty of Draco ahead. She might as well get used to it now.

They walked in together, each unsure if they were meant to wait for the other. Hermione soon tired of this charade and sealed their walking partnership by speaking.

'Doing any study?' she asked, a strong hint of disapproval in her voice, for she knew the answer would be negative.

'Nope.' He kicked at a tuft of grass. 'You knew that. How about you?'

'Of course I'm studying.'

'I meant about next year. What are you studying?'

'Oh, English at Durham. If I get the As.'

'Will you miss Oakwood, do you think?'

'What, this dump?' Hermione laughed. 'Although the dance was a success, I'll grant you, this school really is the pits.' She glanced over at Draco, who looked a bit red, for some reason.

'Did they ever find out who paid for the DJ?' he asked.

'Oh, you heard about the mystery benefactor too!' Hermione said. 'Oh, it's all as great a mystery as ever. Pity they couldn't bung over a bit more; it isn't like this place couldn't do with all the help it could get.'

'Yeah,' Draco agreed, and changed the subject. 'What are you going to do after uni? I suppose you've got some detailed five-year plan?'

'Actually, I don't. And I don't know! I don't know what to do.' Her voice broke slightly on the words. 'It's so unfair! It was all meant to come together and it didn't, and I have no idea what to do with the rest of my life.'

Draco studied his hands for a moment. 'Perhaps, instead of thinking about what you want to do, you should think about what you want to be.'

'Be, how, what's the difference?' she wanted to know. 'I need to earn a living somehow.'

He looked at her then, with a serious expression, dark blonde hair falling over his forehead as he rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. 'It all comes down to money,' he remarked.

'Too right,' Hermione groaned, rubbing her hands over her eyes and unwittingly treating Draco to a front-row view of her stomach, as revealed by her pulled-up t-shirt. He turned his eyes away, smiling.

'So what would you do, or be, if you had enough money not to worry about it?' he asked.

'Travel,' Hermione said promptly. 'See the world...the South of France. Mexico. Australia. Really, really hot places, where the air is so dry it sears your mouth. And just take it all in.' She sighed as her bright dream faded. 'But you'd have to be a _millionaire_ or something, to do that.'

Draco said nothing.

~

It now appeared that Remus was his boyfriend.

This entitled him to quite a lot of words.

A 'good morning, Sev,' when he woke up. An extensive chat during break time, an even longer one during lunch, and at some point in the day plans would be made for a date. For more talking.

Sev wondered why he felt so damnably tired all the time. He tried to recall the frisson that had been his desire for Remus, all those months ago. It was still there, pulsating below the surface. But nothing with Remus was ever pure, simple or undiluted. He was an intensely complicated man. Sev supposed you'd call it emotional baggage, and fair enough, everyone had some. So Remus had an aeroplane's worth; he'd have to live with that.

It was funny what could be assumed, though. Remus now thought - and rightly so, Sev had to admit - that he, Sev, had made the choice which Remus had wanted to be informed. That by taking Remus to his bed, he had committed his heart as well, and forever to boot.

Now, Sev didn't think his heart would be much use to anyone else. He preferred to keep it where he could see it, and that wasn't on his sleeve, like Remus. In addition, he was more than a little uncomfortable at the idea of 'forever'. Words again, muddying the waters. Defining things that should need no definition.

Remus was a terror for it; he did it all the time. Sev wondered if he should be seeing someone about that, or at least popping a pill or two. It was disconcerting.

Sev could understand the need for words in ordinary situation - such as, say, ordering coffee from Starbucks. What he couldn't comprehend was the endless spiels on things like, well, love. As far as Sev was concerned, it wasn't tangible, and moreover, you couldn't drink it and it's caffeine content was in all likelihood nil. So why discuss it at all?

He sat on Remus' camelhair couch late one May evening, listening to the soothing sounds of Remus moving about in the kitchen, preparing his patented Dolmio special. Sev idly flipped through the channels, but nothing held his attention. He found himself laughing out loud at several advertisements in succession, and hastily switched it off.

'It's ready, Sev,' Remus called, and sure enough, pleasant pasta smells were wafting from the kitchen. Sev floated in after them, and seated himself at his small, round dining table. It had been neatly laid with plates, cutlery and glasses, a basket of bread rolls in the centre. He had to give it to him; Remus was a neat, if unskilled, cook (Sev didn't count pouring things out of jars or packets as real cooking) with a real talent for laying tables. He was only grateful there were no flowers stacked about the place.

'Cheers, mate,' he said, as Remus laid a steaming plate of pasta before him. 'And tomorrow I'll cook.'

'You mean you'll take us out to Pizza Hut again,' Remus said, sounding amused.

'Pizza is food!' Sev said in injured tones.

'I never said it wasn't,' Remus said, taking a mouthful of spaghetti. He watched Sev eat for a while - a complicated process involving much twirling of his fork (Remus just cut his up into manageable chunks) - before he spoke again.

'I was meaning to talk to you about something,' he said, sounding uncertain.

'What is it?' Sev's forkful of spaghetti had just slid back onto his plate, and he was absorbed in scooping it up again. He didn't notice the somewhat uncomfortable expression on Remus' face.

'You remember the other night, at your place, when I was looking for a book to read?' Remus was saying. 'Well, I found - this.'

He withdrew a slim volume from his pocket and laid it between them on the table. It was a blue leather-bound pocket diary, such as are sold in newsagents the world over, and are too small to actually keep a record of anything but the most truncated appointments. Sev recognised it at once as his book of poetry.

He stared at it in consternation, and glanced up at Remus, eyes narrowed. 'Did you read it?'

Remus look startled at the venom in his eyes. 'Well, yes, I did.'

Pasta forgotten, Sev stared down at the little book, feeling absurdly betrayed.

'I suppose I'd better show you this too,' Remus said, placing a much folded and faded piece of paper on top of the diary. Sev picked it up and smoothed it out, reading in seconds the silly little poem he'd written one day, long ago, when Selina was pestering him.

'Why did you read my poems, Remus?' Sev asked, fighting to keep his voice steady.

'I wanted to,' Remus said honestly. 'I know they're very much a part of you, and, well, you tell me so little about yourself. I needed to find out about you somehow.'

Sev found that his hands were shaking. He laid down his knife and fork and looked up at Remus with blazing eyes. Remus quailed at the anger there, but it sparked a tinder to his own.

'What was I supposed to do?' he demanded, his voice rising. 'Spend the rest of my life guessing? Waiting for the tid bits you throw me like some kind of tame dog?'

Sev shook his head, marvelling at how little he understood. 'Why couldn't you just be satisfied with me?'

Remus frowned at him, not comprehending. 'I am satisfied with you - what I have of you, that is. Which isn't much. I don't even know your parents' names or your favourite colour. You never _say_ anything, Severus.'

'Why do you need those things? You have the smell of me and the taste of me. Any time you like, you can touch me, look at me, feel me. You have me, why are you searching for a load of useless memories?'

They sat there, staring at each other over plates of cooling pasta. They watched helplessly as the unbridgeable crevasse opened between them and they took their places on either bank. It was no use, Sev realised; wanting someone was utterly futile when their idea of wanting was so completely removed from your own.

After an age, Remus spoke, his voice deadened. 'It was never really a choice, was it?'

'What do you mean?'

'Between him and me. You never had a choice to make. You never - I don't fit you the way he does.'

Sev didn't bother asking who 'he' was. He wouldn't wound Remus further by making him utter Marv's name.

'I think the point is that I don't believe that anyone could, or should, fit me in the first place. That's the difference between you and I.'

'We should have been able to make it work!' Remus shouted, slamming the tabletop with his fists. 'Why is that so important?'

Sev touched a finger to his whitened knuckles, and looked into his forlorn, perspiring face.

'That's why,' he said, and left.

~

Seamus had still never kissed a boy.

When he'd turned up at Cedric's, and said his line, Cedric had stared at him for exactly two seconds, then grabbed up a pair of trainers from behind the door, pulled them on and shut the door behind them. Then he'd led Seamus, who was still feeling dazed, to the local park, and sat him down on a damp park bench emblazoned with all sorts of lewd mottos.

'Okay,' Cedric said. 'I didn't think you'd want to break down in front of my family. Besides, they'd get entirely the wrong idea about _me_.'

Seamus laughed. At least, that's what he'd meant to do, but it came out as a kind of hiccupping sob. Cedric had sat there, turned towards him at first, simply being there, but after a while he put a tentative hand on Seamus' shoulder.

This was all the invitation Seamus needed; he clutched Cedric around the neck with one hand and sobbed into his shoulder. Some part of him was wincing in shame at this, but still he cried and cried, and when at last he was done there was a huge wet patch on Cedric's t-shirt.

'Sorry,' he muttered.

'Never mind that. Saves me washing it,' Cedric joked, then tilted Seamus' chin up so that his grey eyes bored into Seamus' blue ones. His heart thudded for a moment; he wondered if Cedric was going to kiss him. Then, an instant later, he wondered if he wanted him to. But Cedric simply seemed to be trying to get his full attention, for he added, 'Talk.'

So Seamus did. It took a surprisingly short time, considering. It was ludicrous, the way life-changing events could be summed up in a few concise sentences. But Seamus supposed Sky News couldn't possibly have come into existence if this wasn't the case.

Dusk was falling on the little park when he finished. They sat there for a while, side up side, not talking, until Seamus felt compelled to demand, 'Well? Aren't you going to say something?'

Cedric seemed to regard this as an excessively important request, for he put his head on one side and adopted an expression last seen on the Thinker. He looked like a bird, with his bright eyes and neat, solemn features.

'I feel rather under-qualified,' he said at last. 'I've never had any real drama in my life, except the night I told my mother I was gay. And only because she broke her grandmother's crystal decanter when she fainted. But aside from that, I'd only be repeating something inane I saw on TV. What do you want me to say? That Dean is a prick? Well, he is, or at least just stupid and confused. That he loves you really? That's pretty unlikely, I'm afraid. Even if he did, as a father he will have to be a different person anyhow. That he's a complete and utter idiot for not having used protection? Absolutely.' He paused. 'Unless they wanted this baby?'

Seamus stared at him. 'They're eighteen. No, wait, Ginny's _seventeen_. Even if they were to do something so awfully crass as to get married later on, like perfectly hideous childhood sweethearts, it would be just that - later on. Not now. I don't think anyone would want to be a father at eighteen. If Dean ever expressed ambitions in that direction, it wasn't when I could hear him.'

'Fair enough, just checking,' Cedric said. 'Um - you do realise that this is totally not your problem, right? That it's not your girlfriend up the duff?'

'I managed to work that one out,' Seamus returned. 'Being gay was rather a hint...but the fact is, he came to me smashed out of his brain when he found out, and we...well, we...'

'No need to draw a diagram, I get it,' Cedric interjected. 'How do you feel about him - doing that?'

'Taking advantage of me?' Seamus rubbed his face. The tears were drying now, making his skin itch. 'I let it happen. I shouldn't have. I don't think he meant for it to happen, or would like it to happen again. He's got far bigger problems now.'

'I'll say,' Cedric agreed.

After that, Cedric had to go home or let his parents think he'd been abducted by aliens.

'Or kidnapped,' Seamus suggested.

'No, no, my father assures me that they've tried. They used to lose me regularly in shopping centres in the hope that someone would nab me, but they never had any joy.'

Since then, they'd met up in the park a few times, but it was an unsatisfactory place to muster; everyone seemed to eye them as if they were perverts or stalkers. They hadn't spoken of Dean since, not really

By the third time, Seamus was fed up. He invited Cedric to his house to watch his LotR videos. He had discovered - to his immense chagrin - that Cedric had never seen any of them. Seamus felt that this was a fearful omission on his part, one that he was determined to rectify.

It also turned out to be how he got his first kiss. From a boy.

They were comfortably nestled into Seamus' sofa, with Seamus' parents and little sister conveniently out of the way, gone to visit his grandmother. Seamus was keeping a huge bowl of popcorn steady with his knee as he fiddled with the remotes, grunting with triumph when the opening credits began to roll. He settled himself back into the seat, and reached for a handful of popcorn at the same instant Cedric did.

It was a Polariod moment that by rights should have been confined to trashy romance novels. In reality, it wasn't all that romantic; both their hands were greasy with salt and that peculiar popcorny graininess that can only be removed by licking. Seamus, with an embarrassed cough, did just that, under the pretext of gulping back a handful of popcorn. Cedric, eyes on the screen, smiled secretly to himself and thoughtfully bathed his fingers with his tongue.

This action caught Seamus' attention, so much so that the film was completely forgot. As he watched Cedric's pink tongue flicker around the tip of his index finger, Cedric blithely unaware of the attention, Seamus felt his breathing quicken. Slyly, he removed the popcorn bowl from between them and placed it on the table, then settled himself back onto his seat. Which was now a good three inches closer to Cedric.

Seamus crossed his arms and stared at the screen, not seeing it. Cedric halted his finger-washing routine to look searchingly at him. Seamus could feel a blush tingling in his cheeks, caused by Cedric's gaze, which had now progressed to a full-body strip-search. Seamus' breathing was very audible now, at least to his own ears.

Cedric shifted in his seat, so that all at once his thigh was flush against Seamus'. He turned to look at him, with a questioning expression, but Seamus was tired of pussy-footing around. Before Cedric's head had gone ninety degrees Seamus leaned forward and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

It was nothing like kissing a girl. Cedric's lips were innocent of sticky lipgloss, and slightly dry. Seamus could feel a hint of stubble against his upper lip, and felt a tinge of envy - he was still waiting for even a hint of fluff - before Cedric's tongue gained entry to his mouth, and he forgot everything except: the wetness, the warmth, the sound of Cedric's soft moans and his own, the feel of Cedric's hands on his shirt, the feel of Cedric's hands under his shirt.

He broke the kiss then, flushed and breathing hard. He needed to stop it now; he wasn't sure how far he wanted to go.

Cedric raised an eyebrow in approval. 'Where on earth did you learn to kiss like that?'

'What?' Seamus frowned. 'Nowhere, why?'

'Damn.' Cedric sounded disappointed. 'I was hoping you could teach me.'

'There's nothing wrong with the way you kiss,' Seamus said breathlessly.

'Do you want to make sure?' Cedric teased.

Seamus hesitated, then touched his lips to Cedric's. He kissed him softly this time, ran his tongue over Cedric's lower lip. Cedric sighed in contentment and lolled back on the couch as Seamus kissed him thoroughly. He lifted a hand and Seamus tensed, but he merely clasped it to the back of Seamus' head, and used it to bring Seamus closer and deepen the kiss. He seemed to have picked up on Seamus' unwillingness to allow more, for his hands stayed resolutely outside his clothes.

Even so, Cedric left later that night without having seen much more of Lord of the Rings than he had when he arrived.

~

Remus sat in the staff room, reading a letter and wearing an expression of utter disbelief.

'You look like you've seen a ghost, Remus old chap,' Marie, the ever-cheerful, commented.

'Not a ghost.' Remus shook his head, his eyes distant. 'Have you seen Bertie around?'

'Yep, he followed me in,' Marie said, pointing. 'Incidentally...what happened to you and Sev, if you don't mind my asking?'

'But I do,' Remus said, with a sweet smile. 'Mind you asking, that is.'

Ignoring Marie's surprised expression, he hailed Bertie. 'Come and have a look at this, and tell me if I'm dreaming.'

Bertie took the letter proffered, and scanned it. His eyes widened so much they appeared to be spinning in their sockets.

'My god,' he managed, sinking into a chair.

'What is it?' Marie asked, as ever afire with curiosity.

'It appears our mystery benefactor has made - another donation,' Remus said, his voice sounding strangulated.

'You don't mean - the one who paid for the DJ?' Marie confirmed.

'The very same. And his contribution this time is - rather generous.'

' _How_ generous?' Marie wanted to know.

'Somewhere in the region of two million pounds,' Remus told her, and felt like giggling in shock.

This time Marie sat down. There being no chair handy, she came to rest on the floor with a considerable bump. Her hair, mussed by its sudden, sharp descent, appeared over the edge of the table.

'Who is it?' she demanded.

'We'll never know,' Remus said. 'Terms of the offer. He, or she, doesn't want to be named or acknowledged in any way.'

'How much did we make from the dance again?' Marie asked. If she'd been a slot machine, her eyes would have pinged two identical dollar signs.

'About one thousand pounds, wasn't it, Bertie?' Remus turned to the older man, who seemed to have been struck dumb; he merely nodded.

'So, we were looking at about five to ten years fundraising, plus a government subsidy, to build the new PE complex. But now...' her voice trailed off.

Remus' face worked to keep from seizing up in pure, unadulterated exultation.

'We can call the builders tomorrow. And use the money from the dance to buy the new lab equipment you wanted...'

'The future looks rosy,' Bertie opined, breaking his silence at last.

'A strike from the blue,' Marie added.

Remus said nothing.

He didn't have Sev. He would never have Sev. He'd even sent a message to him relieving him of his duties regarding the school trip; three days with him would have been torture. He'd thought nothing would ever be good or happy or whole again, because he couldn't be what Sev wanted him to be. He couldn't be his brother, much as he might like to be.

But it just went to show...

'Every cloud has a silver lining,' Remus said, and grinned.

~

Watching Black and Hermione dance around each other made Blaise's teeth ache. They were bending over backwards in the effort not to jump each other. Finding that her own heart's desire didn't distract her for long, helping other people, most especially when they didn't want to help themselves, was once more her life's work.

Sometimes it only required the smallest of pushes.

As Black sauntered past them one break time, past Hermione with her eyes like dinner plates and gibbering nonsense to pretend she didn't notice him, Blaise quietly untangled herself from Harry's arms and followed him.

'Yes?' Black said as she walked by, peering about for him. He was standing in an alcove around the corner from where Hermione was seated, relaxed and dispirited now her reason for being alive had moved elsewhere. Cranking her neck, Blaise could just make out Hermione's profile. She smiled. This was going to be even easier than she'd thought... _and_ she'd been right all along.

'I hate owing favours,' Blaise confided to Black. 'And I feel I owe you one, even though you probably won't remember why. Doesn't matter; I'm paying you back anyway.'

Black stared at her, looking blank.

'I know there have been some massive misunderstandings between you and Hermione - _don't_ say anything, just hear me out. But, when it comes down to it, everything is quite simple. She fancies you. And, correct me if I'm wrong - you fancy her.'

Black nodded, then realised what he was doing and scowled darkly instead.

'What's it got to do with you?' he sneered.

'Only that I know her parents are away at a dentistry convention tonight. You might just want to call around for a chat.'

She sauntered away, leaving Draco buzzing.

~

His mind carefully blank, Sev rang the doorbell of Marv's house. It had always struck him as a little - off - that Marv would live in a renovated Victorian mansion. Thoughts like these were easy to think, better to think, than pondering what Marv would say when he opened the door to find Sev standing on his rather grubby, leaf-strewn doorstep.

 _If_ he ever opened the bloody door, an event that was looking increasingly unlikely. In annoyance, Sev raised a fist to hammer the green varnished wood, and was brought up short when the door was abruptly opened.

Marv was standing there, yawning, his hair tousled from sleep. With a feverish eye for details, to stop himself thinking, Sev noted that it was quite long now, rather wavy, and a lot darker than R - than his brother's was; almost black, in fact. He was dressed in a crumpled pair of blue check boxers. Squinting at Sev, Marv scratched his hand over his sculpted chest. Sev lowered his hand, rather wrong-footed.

'I was wondering if you were going to punch me,' Marv said neutrally. 'Good thing you didn't. I left my knuckledusters upstairs. I wasn't expecting to be assaulted, not until tomorrow, at least.'

'Tomorrow?' Sev repeated.

'My shift at the bar,' Marv informed him, stretching up his arms as he yawned again. Under his skin, the muscles moved in an intricate dance. Sev watched, entranced. He wanted to touch Marv. So he did.

Marv looked down at Sev's hand, resting lightly just above his navel, and back up again.

'You're coming back, are you?'

'Yes,' Sev said. 'For good, if you don't mind.'

'I don't mind,' Marv said, with unalloyed contentment, smiling properly for the first time Sev could remember. He could still feel him smiling under his kiss.

Sev stepped inside and closed the door.

~

Seamus opened the door to find the last person in the world he would expect to see - namely, Dean - standing there. Well, actually, the last person he truly would have expected would be, say, Santa Claus. Or David Beckham. But Dean ran a pretty close second (or third). It was as a result of this unexpected situation that Seamus hung off the door, mouth agape, wondering if Dean could quite possibly be a hologram, and speculating that he should try and touch him and see if his hand went through him.

He was diverted from his increasingly feverish thoughts by Dean's tentative voice.

'Hey, Seamus. Is it all right if I come in?'

Such normal words from his mouth, Seamus marvelled. Once - not that long ago, in fairness - Dean would never have had to _ask_ to be invited in. But, 'Of course,' he replied, a little sad that is was necessary.

They sat on the couch together, edgeways, crab-like, almost as if they were two long-lost relatives that everyone had shoved together before making a stampede for the trifle.

Dean reached into his pocket, clearing his throat, and mumbled, 'I brought the Return of the King EE. Would you like to - I don't know - watch it?'

Seamus understood.

Dean was trying to do the impossible. To turn things back the way they used to be. Seamus knew this was hopeless. Or, at least, very very hard. But once you eliminated the impossible...what was left had to be possible. That was how it was. He respected what Dean was trying to do, even as he realised the futility of it. You had to try though, try to forget. If you kept remembering the bad things you'd never stop.

'Go on then,' he added, then, with more sincerity, 'I've been waiting for ages to see this. Is it good?'

'Excellent,' Dean promised. He paused. 'Listen, what I said before - about us being...friends. I still mean it.'

'What did you say before?' Seamus said, too quickly.

Dean understood.

It was going to be all or nothing with him, like it always had been.

He chose nothing.

'Never mind. Here, watch this bit ...'

So they sat and watched, with occasional comments and exclamations. Dean never spoke about Ginny, who had started being sick in the mornings, or his visit to the hospital to see the ultrasound of his child. He didn't mention the horrifying looks of shock and disbelief and disappointment on their parents' faces when they'd been told they were going to be grandparents, a good five years before the even the most aspiring had thought to be.

In his turn, Seamus didn't bring up Cedric, or the difficulties he was experiencing in trying to keep things steady, and how what had transpired between him and Dean seemed to be stunting the development of his first proper relationship.

It was going to be the hardest thing, for their life to come; not saying. Not mentioning. Not confiding. But there was always the relief that at least one thing had remained the same.

Even when it wasn't the same, not at all.

~

In a fit of maternal anxiety, Narcissa had instructed her son to start studying when he arrived home. This didn't fit in with Draco's half-formed plans at all, and he ended up being sent to his room after a showdown with her, which he lost. He had to settle for waiting until she went to bed, then sneaking out of the house.

When he arrived at Hermione's house at a quarter to midnight, he tried the bell, but no one answered. A floodlight did go on from the house next door, and Draco hid in the shrubbery until it flicked off. He settled for tossing pebbles at Hermione's window, and hoarsely calling her name.

His current plan of action was yielding precisely no results, and, discouraged, he sat down in the damp grass of her lawn, picking at a loose thread in his jeans. All at once, a shaft of moonlight illuminated a flimsy looking trellis underneath Hermione's window. It looked like it might support climbing roses in summer. It most definitely did not look like it would support an adult human trying to use it for the Romeo and Juliet version of breaking and entering.

Draco got to his feet and removed his shoes and socks, wincing a little as his toes made contact with the wet blades of grass. Hermione's window was of the old fashioned sliding kind, and it was opened a fingersbreath. The first thing to do would be to get it open.

He made a running jump at the trellis and propelled himself up it, hooking his toes around the slats and using his second's grace to slip his fingers under the window pane and shove it upwards with all his might. Then he felt himself falling, and jumped instead.

Standing back to survey his handiwork, he noted with triumph that the window was now half-way open. He preformed a second run-up to the trellis and grabbed the windowsill, managing to crook one arm over it as far as his elbow. He rested his toes lightly on the trellis and scrabbled, getting the other arm over the sill and dislodging several vines in the process.

With a combination of propulsion from his feet and frantic squirming, he succeeded in dragging himself through the window. There was a heart-stopping instant when he thought he was going to fall back the other way, and probably break his jaw; but fear stimulated his adrenaline and with an almighty heave, he got his entire torso into the room. After that, it was simply a matter of hauling his legs in after him and he was standing on Hermione's bedroom floor, a little grass-stained, a little scraped, but otherwise intact.

Hermione was fast asleep, her cheeks flushed and her hair a dark banner against the pillow. She slept spread-eagled, as if bound on some medieval torture instrument, and her face was screwed up in accordance. One bare leg was sticking out from under the Garfield duvet, dangling limply. She was hardly a thing of beauty or a joy forever, but Draco felt something in his chest squeeze at the sight, and his breath stuck in his throat.

He stepped forward, wading through a dry carpet of screwed-up paper, and trod on a creaky floorboard. He tensed; Hermione's eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she stared at him, and the tableau held.

Then she said, in a tightly controlled voice that was nonetheless right up there on the edge of hysterical, 'Draco. Black. What are you doing in my room?'

'I - I came to visit,' Draco said, wincing.

'It's the middle of the night,' Hermione pointed out. 'Aha! I have it! You're a figment of my imagination. I'm dreaming.'

'Do you dream about me often, then?' Draco asked, curious.

'Wouldn't you know already?'

'Maybe, if you were dreaming me. But you're not.'

Hermione sat up in bed, dragging her legs to her chest and hugging them. She glared at him; the glare that really deserved to make Draco start squealing 'I'm melting!'

'Sit,' she commanded. 'Explain. Not there, that's my foot!'

Draco sat at the edge of her bed, feeling at a disadvantage, because the smell of her perfume kept reminding him how close she was. It was distracting. There was also that piece of hair that was falling into her eyes; he really wanted to push it back for her.

'I needed to ask you something,' he said in a rush, before he lost the power of speech altogether. 'Were you dared to kiss me?'

'No,' Hermione said, frowning in confusion.

'I wasn't either. I only said it because I thought _you_ were,' Draco explained, looking at Hermione's wall to prevent himself from losing it (or looking down her pyjama top) when she leaned forward, her brow furrowed.

'You came all the way - through my window!' she exclaimed, noticing, 'to tell me that?'

'Yes,' Draco agreed, tilted his head and kissed her. Once he had, he remembered exactly why he'd wanted to. It felt the way a kiss was supposed to feel, when you kissed the person you were supposed to kiss. She'd spoiled him for life.

When be broke away, wishing he didn't have to but also rather needing to breathe, Hermione was looking at him in mild anger and surprise.

'And what exactly do you mean by that?' she demanded. 'After everything you've put me through, do you think you can just - just _break_ _into_ my house and kiss me?'

'Obviously I _can_ ,' Draco pointed out. 'I just did.' He smiled as she struggled with the fact that her grammar allowed him to win that round.

She took a deep breath, and put her hands on either side of his face. She touched her forehead to his. 'Draco Black, you have to be the most infuriating boy I've ever had the great fortune to come across. And I want to know if Pansy dared you to kiss me, and told you to beat me up.'

'She did not. Jesus H Christ, I'd never, ever do that,' Draco said in disgust. 'Did Padma dare _you_?'

'Padma?' Hermione repeated vaguely. 'Oh, Parvati's twin. Draco, I've never spoken to her in my life!'

'So, am I forgiven?' he asked, hope lighting his face.

'In light of the fact that we got our wires severely crossed, it wasn't entirely your fault,' Hermione admitted. 'I don't know if I can get over the fact that you didn't trust me enough to believe me, though.'

'But I did trust you!' Draco blurted. 'It was just, I had to pretend not to, because you had so much power.'

'Me?' Hermione said, looking sceptical. 'What kind of power do I have, pray tell?'

'All of it. Over me,' Draco said, as her hands slipped down to rest on his shoulders. 'You could have hurt me so badly, and - look, I was scared, okay?'

'Cowardice isn't a sin,' Hermione murmured, letting her head fall onto the pillow. 'For what it's worth, I forgive you. You silver-tongued devil.'

'You must be the girl in the song then,' Draco said. 'Did they have a happy ending?'

'No, of course not. Who does? You can't have a happy ending, because there's no such thing as an ending.'

'Good point, well made,' Draco agreed.

He lay down beside her, and she turned her head to look at him. He took one of her hands, and raised it to his face. He looked at the skin; the endless whorls, the deeply engraved lines of her palm, the shell-like texture of her fingernails. She submitted to his scrutiny with a dream-like complacency. She only smiled a little when he pressed his lips to each of his fingers in turn.

'Hermione,' he said, and his matter-of-fact tone jolted her out of her state of near-catatonia, 'I think I'm in love with you.'

Hermione's eyes opened wide in shock. 'You've got a bloody odd way of showing it,' she choked.

He placed his lips to the soft indent where her ear met her jaw, and let his breath sway the fine hairs. She shivered. He rested his lightly curled fist on the warm skin of her stomach, between the hem of her top and her pyjama bottoms. He stretched out his fingers, slowly, feeling the tremors running between them. He paused then, and looked into her face.

'Is this a better way?' he asked, his voice a mere breath of warm air against her hot cheek.

'Yes,' she said, and laughed as his cold, wet feet tangled with hers.

'You tell me what you want,' he said, leaning down to kiss her again. And again.

'We'll tell each other,' she corrected him.

And the moon sank, and the sun rose, and it was a new day.


	12. Castles In The Air

_I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was - there is no man that can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had, and man is but a patch'd fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had..._

_...This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard._

(Shakespeare)

 

Is the truth in dreams, or in waking life?

~

Seamus

He was walking down a stony corridor, with Dean, and, for some reason, Ron, Harry and Neville. They were dressed like actors out of Shakespearian play, but Seamus didn't find it odd, as he would in real life. It just felt normal, and right.

A montage of half-understood and half-seen images flashed through his brain. They mostly contained Dean. Dean with Ginny, once or twice, but there was no swelling bump in evidence. In fact, sometimes she held hands with Harry. Cedric was there too, flying through the air. It was clearly a dangerous thing to do, for the next instant he was lying in a football stadium, and he was dead.

And sometimes it was just Seamus and Dean, and although there were strange, luxurious four-poster beds, there were no clothes at all.

A flash of green light burst in front of his eyes, and he jerked awake.

Seamus scrabbled at his sleeping bag, and sat upright, nearly braining himself on the bottom of the bunk above him, where Dean slept. He cradled his forehead in his palms. He couldn't remember ever having dreamed so clearly before, and the images weren't fading, as they usually did. Not even the naked ones he had often, the ones he _wished_ would hang around and which never did.

He stared ahead of him into the darkness. He should feel dead tired; it had been an eventful day. He didn't think he was going to go to sleep any time soon, though.

The dreams were just too cruel.

~

Remus

Sirius. Why was he with Sirius? They'd broken up a long time ago, and Remus had got over him. Truly he had. But there Sirius was, clear as day, lying in his bed, although Remus didn't recognise the room. He was laughing, and calling him. Bemused, Remus went.

Where was Lucius?

He appeared, side by side with Sev( _erus_ , his mind added). They were both smiling, but their smiles turned Remus' insides cold. He looked at Sirius, naked and laughing without a care in the world. Marv came up behind Lucius and Severus, looming to three times his real size, and his eyes glowed as red as rubies. Their clothes suddenly evaporated, replaced by hundreds of writhing snakes. All at once, the snakes lunged, and swallowed Sirius whole.

Lucius and Marv were laughing, Sirius was dead, Remus was screaming, and Severus was saying, in a hoarse, tired voice, 'I wished him dead, you know that.'

Remus awoke with tears on his cheeks, and groped for his mobile phone. Shaking, he dialled Sirius' number.

''Lo?'

'Sirius - Sirius, it's me.' Remus took a deep, shuddering breath. 'Are you all right?'

'Of course I am, Remus!' There was a muffled enquiry on the other line. 'I'm fine, so's Lucius. What's wrong?'

'Nothing. Nothing.' Remus shook his head. 'It's - I dreamed you were dead, that's all.'

There was a throaty laugh. 'Remus. Go back to sleep. Dreams aren't real, you know that.'

~

Hermione

She knew straight away that she wasn't where she should be. The sky was dark above her; not a single star was afire, and there was no moon. There were occasional flashes of unnatural red and green light, interspersed with screams, but they became less and less frequent as she stumbled forward, not knowing where she was going, or why, only that she must.

She fell several times, over lumps in the ground. Once, a light went off when she was on her knees, and she saw to her horror that what she'd tripped over was a body. She scrabbled away, not wanting to see who it was, and cannoned into another.

She turned, and screamed. It was Harry.

His green eyes were open and glassy, his glasses cracked in many places. He had several cuts and bruises, none of which looked serious, but he was unmistakeably dead. His body was lying over that of an older, bald man.

Another flash, another scream, and a figure was approaching through the gloom. Light glinted off his pale head.

'Draco!' Hermione said in relief, managing to get upright. 'Where are we?'

'You've completely lost it, Mudblood,' he said, and although it was his mouth moving, that was not his voice, she could have sworn it. 'Seeing the death of the precious Boy Wonder must have addled your brain.' He twirled a cane between his fingers. 'Pity he took the Dark Lord down with him, but then, they are so easily replaced. Boy Wonders _and_ Dark Lords.'

'What the hell are you talking about?' Hermione was angry now.

'You. Me. Us.' Draco gestured with the cane, smiling with no humour whatsoever.

'You and me.' Hermione's voice trembled. 'We. We are going out. We are going to Australia together...You inherited a fortune and we're going to travel...I am in lo-'

'You are delusional, Granger.' Draco's voice was as cold as the night itself.

'Where are we?' Hermione repeated, feeling hysterical now.

'We are at the bitter end,' Draco said, his eyes glinting in a flare of green light. 'At least, for you...'

He raised the cane. Hermione had no idea what he was doing, but with a primal instinct she backed away, and fell to her knees by Harry's corpse.

'I love you!' she screamed.

Hermione's eyes opened onto the dark, and she stifled a cry. As her sight resolved, she realised she was not on a battlefield but in the dorm room of Hogwarts Outdoor Adventure Centre, and that beautiful, reassuring moonlight was streaming in the window, and that all around her people were snoring or chatting in low voices.

'I love you,' she muttered, feeling a sharp dart of fear as she remembered her senseless, terrifying dream. She swung her legs out of bed and rushed from the room, short pyjamas only defence against the cold.

She had no idea where she was going, but she ran down a flight of stairs and Draco was standing at the foot of them, looking sleep-ruffled and angry.

'I dreamed -' he started.

'Me too,' she said, because she could see it in his eyes that it had been the same dream.

'What does it mean?' he whispered.

'Nothing,' Hermione said, firmly, willing herself to believe it. 'Nothing at all.'

~

Harry

Hermione was beckoning him to a table beside the fire. Ron was sitting with her. They looked very close; in fact, unless Harry was mistaken, they were holding hands. Harry started forward, smiling.

The scene changed, and Mr Snape was standing before him, glowering. Harry was on his knees on a cold stone floor, his stomach in knots. Snape hauled him upright, shaking his head in angry disapproval.

'Abysmal, as usual, Mr Potter!' he barked, before kissing him on the mouth.

There was a knock at the door, and Black entered, a sneer on his face. Harry wondered where his trainers were; he couldn't imagine Black without them. Then again, he couldn't imagine Black in a dress either, and he was.

'Remedial Potions, Potter?' he drawled. 'Isn't it my turn, Professor?'

He grabbed Harry's hand and started waltzing with him around the room. They came to a stop and Harry discovered he was holding Ginny in his arms.

'My mother wants to see the ring, Harry,' she said, blushing.

Of course! He had to give her a ring, didn't he? He looked in his pockets, but all he could come up with was a stick of wood.

Suddenly, he was all alone, in the dark.

'Would you like to see your parents again, Harry?' a disembodied voice asked, echoing in his head.

'Yes!' Harry replied eagerly, and felt himself dissolve away. He was in a tunnel, after all, and there was a pinprick of light at the end of it. Two figures were coming towards him.

'Harry! Harry, wake up!'

He opened his eyes to Blaise shaking him awake. He blinked, reached for his glasses, and asked groggily, 'What are you doing here?'

'I snuck in,' Blaise said, looking proud. She pushed him so that she could slither into his sleeping bag with him. Harry smiled.

'Are you okay?' she asked. 'You were mumbling in your sleep.'

Harry shook his head. 'I was having a dream about my parents, I think.'

'Oh, Harry.' Blaise's eyes were liquid with sympathy. 'Can you remember them at all?'

'Not really,' Harry said. 'I think I look like my dad. The Dursleys had a couple of photos of him, and my mum, but a lot of their possessions were left in their old house when it was sold.' He shrugged.

'Do you miss them?'

'No. I never knew them. And if they were around, I'd probably have loads of grief with them, like all parents.'

'Probably,' Blaise said, putting her arms around him with a contented sigh. 'All you can do is play the hand you're dealt. Maybe there's another you out there somewhere, with parents and a curfew and ten million girlfriends.'

'Or boyfriends,' Harry felt obliged to point out, although he was not entirely sure why.

'Cheeky,' Blaise grinned, and he kissed her on the head. 'Somewhere else, we could be anyone,' she added. 'It might as well be here.'

FIN


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